Instructions On The Back
by TopHatGirl
Summary: It's a game, really. One by one, the glee kids get different cards in the mail with different words on the back, indicating their death. There can be no survivor. But you can play, too. Deciding their fate as you read their terrible tragedies. Ready? Go.
1. Introductions

**A/N: UPDATED PROLOUGE. As you can see, this one is vastly different, but I have given you the original version at the bottom. If you're confused, then see the chapter UPDATE. **

In the basement, he was always thinking. Whenever at home, which was rarely, he would gallop down the stairs and light a few candles. Sinister as his thoughts may be, he never really thought of it that way. He was never one to question motives.

Right now, the clutter on his desk made him quite happy. It meant the end of the days where he would clutch at his hair in exasperation, asking himself if it was ever worth it.

**Worth it: **(_**expression.) **_

_**1.**_**Another way of asking yourself if you might be unstable, and the consequences it would cause if the accusation was true. **

**Second doubting yourself.**

Can you believe that it's both the former and the latter?

_This is never going to end well, _he thinks. He thinks this, but in the back of his mind he asks himself, _Does he care?_

He may be in love, he may be twisted, he may not even have a beating heart for much longer. No one can know why.

Except for one.

He ruffles the maps, the bios that he wrote, the stolen letters, the various plans on how and when (and more importantly, with what). The pain staking care he had taken with his plans. Oh, but maybe it will be worth it.

He sighs, dumping out the cards out of it's package, and begins writing on the back with his pen. He's careful not to leave any clues. Wearing black leather gloves, keeping all hair and crumbs away from the room, and changing his handwriting greatly. As he writes, the scenes he imagines flash through his mind. People are very predictable. He knows exactly how they can react.

Besides, he's picking the most helpless kids in the entire town, no, scratch that, in all of the state. Maybe even country. They aren't bloody detectives, they have no idea how to handle what's going to happen to them. Unlike every movie ever written, regular people can't have ideas or instinctive reactions to situations like this.

It's thoughts like this that calm him. He won't be caught.

The only one who will punish him is himself.

He sighs, and blows out the candles.

Soon.

**ORIGINAL PROLOGUE**

It was quite simple, really.

Take the kids who no one liked.

Make the others realize.

Thirteen of them.

Two of them didn't go to McKinley high.

But all of them had a tie between them.

All of them got one card in their mailbox.

Each card had one word scrawled on the back.

**SUDDEN**

**SLOW**

**QUICKLY**

**UNKNOWN**

**BRUTAL**

**WILLING**

**MISSING**

**FIRST**

**EASY**

**SELF**

**PSYCHIC**

**LATE**

**GAME**

The words were unrelated to each other. The cards would arrive at different times.

But they all meant the same thing.

Death.


	2. FIRST

**A/N: Welcome. This is an audience participation fiction, too. Review, telling me who you want to die next, thus deciding their fate. Twisted, eh? Well, that's the game. But if you wish, you could review telling me who you want to survive. But remember who the real controller is. Me. Ready to play?**

**Note: Every chapter will be in first person POV, but from a different person's perspective. The thing is, you have to guess who it is. **

It's probably the easiest to be the first one.

_One._

I got a water bottle out of the freezer, taking a long swig.

_Buzz. Buzz._

"Hello?" I say, opening up the phone.

No answer.

"Hello?" I say again, dumbly. Damn telemarketers.

No answer.

I flip the phone shut, tossing it onto the couch.

My computer pings, and I pull up an email.

_Dear glee-clubbers-_

_It has come to my attention that Regionals is coming up, and we need to plan accordingly. I think everyone should come to my house this Saturday, and-_

I press 'delete'.I doubt Miss Berry would notice if I didn't show up. It's not like anyone cared how my voice sounded like.My dog starts growling at the door, scratching and gruffing. I smack her nose lightly. A small terrier can't hurt anyone. I open the door, and see the mailvan speeding away. Mail's here. I take the wad of bills and catalogs, dumping it out onto the kitchen table. I quickly flip through it. Bill. Bill. Advertisement. Army recruitment. No way would they want a dancer in the army. Bill. Then.

An Eight of Clubs catches my eye in the pile. That's all it is. A playing card. I hold it in between my fingers. Cool. I turn it over, and see a word hastily written on the back.

**FIRST**

I think it's an advertisement for some casino, so I toss it back into the pile.

The clock ticks, indicating the time.

Four o'clock.

Time for dance class.

I take my bag, heading out the door, closing it behind me.

The air breezes past my arms, as I head to the bus stop.

_Buzzzzz._

New text.

**From: Matt (4:03PM)**

**Hey dude, I know ur busy with dance and stuff, but i think we shld hang out on fri. Havnt seen u in 4eva.**

I text back a quick 'sure', as I get onto the bus. The Lima Transport System has seen far better days. The seats have been chipped away and trash litters the floor. I sit next to someone wearing a black hoodie, covering their face. I can't tell if it's a man or woman. I don't say a word. Just watch the incredibly small town of Lima, Ohio roll by.

**From: Matt (4:12PM)**

**So how's McKinley? Everything going smoothly?**

The bus jerks to a stop before I can reply. I get off first, knowing I'm late.

The studio is still a block away, so I have to walk by old buildings and alleyways.

Then.

A hand is placed on my shoulder, pulling me back.

Lips are in my ear, speaking.

"Don't want you to start the fun?" the voice says. It's a twisted whisper, sneaking into my brain, ricocheting. Then I'm pushed into an alleyway, back grazing the hard ground. "You're going to die in an alleyway. How cliché. But I needed something _ssscary_ to make the others paranoid."

The dark figure approaches me, steps echoing.

A knife pushes my chin up to the face.

"Did you get the card? _**FIRST. **_It's actually lucky, you know. Now you won't have to watch your friends die."

I don't speak, a hand choking my throat.

I can hear my heart pound in my ears.

Oh, god.

The knife is raised.

The killer starts singing softly.

"_Help I'm alive and my heart keeps beating like a hammer..." _

Black.

**From: Matt(6:23PM)**

**...Mike? You there?**


	3. QUICKLY

**A/N: Review to see your favorites live longer. Or to see your least favorites die quickly. Just say who you want to live or die in your reviews.**

**Note: End the end of each chapter, the killer will sing a few lyrics from a certain song. The last chapter was Help I'm Alive by Metric. **

Word spread quickly throughout Lima. Everyone knew about the tragic death of Mike Chang by Monday morning. Contrast to the gloomy mood, the skies were clear and bright, not a cloud in sight. Nobody spoke in glee. Even Rachel didn't open her mouth.

I was ambivalent. I didn't really know Mike well, except for the fact that he was an amazing dancer.

But descriptions of his death didn't skimp on the details.

Cut up painstakingly well in an alleyway. Slashes. Thirteen to be exact. Holding a card that read _**FIRST **_on the back.

"It's a warning," Brittany pipes up in glee. We all turn around to face her.

"What, Britt?" Santana asks. Britt blinks.

"Hm? What are we talking about?" she asks.

School drags by slowly. Everyone shuffles about, trying to keep their mind off of the death.

"The funeral is on Saturday," Mr. Schue says. "You're all invited."

I lean back in my chair. This isn't what I expected when I came to McKinley. I expected small town quiet. Not murder. Quinn pats my shoulder, thinking that I'm sad about Mike. Not really. Just confused. Why would anyone want to murder him? Mike doesn't seem like the kind of guy who would be involved in anything seedy. Drug dealing? Mafia? Crimes? Mike Chang was a dancer, for god sake. Which makes me think.

Football is also depressing. Coach doesn't even think about who she wants to replace Mike on the team, so we just did drills the whole time.

I go home and take a nap. Long one. Sleeping off bad thoughts.

"Why are you sleeping?" A small voice asks me. I slowly open my eyes, and my sister Olivia is staring at me with wide green eyes.

"Hey, Oli. Just tired." I stretch, stepping off the couch. "How are you feeling? Still have that cough?"

"I feel a lot better," she says, but then immediately starts coughing. I rub her back. Poor girl. Being five is tough.

"Come on, I'll get you some chocolate milk." We head towards the kitchen, and I pour her a glass. She gulps it up eagerly.

_Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing._

I flip my phone open.

"Hello?"

No response.

"If this is a prank call..." Empty threat.

Still nothing. I growl, and close the phone. Olivia peeks up at my curiously. I smile with my huge mouth.

"Come on, we'll watch Sesame Street." She coughs in agreement. I turn on the TV, and make Elmo come on the screen, dancing and smiling.

_Ding Dong._

I sigh, getting up from the couch.

"Package you need to sign for," the delivery man says. I nod, scribbling out my signature.

"Thanks," he says. The 'mister' makes me sound like more of a man. While I'm outside, I check the mail.

A manila folder is shoved in the mailbox. Addressed to me.

Curious.

I open it up, and only one small card flutters out. A playing card. Two of Clubs.

Playing card.

That sounds really familiar...

I pick it up from it's resting spot on the ground.

On the back: _**QUICKLY. **_

"Let's take a walk, shall we?" a voice from behind me says. "Don't turn around. Just know that I am going to kill you. Go out the back gate, into the nothingness behind it. No one can hear you scream, eh?"

I gulp, and obey. My steps are small and shaky as I keep walking.

"You're sister is a pretty one. So small. So fragile," the voice continues. "Wouldn't want something to happen to her."

I freeze. "Don't lay a hand on my sister."

A whisper: "I won't if you obey me, Sam."

So I keep walking until my house is out of sight.

A hand pushes me into the dirt.

"If you resist, I kill her."

Then he starts to sing.

"_Skeleton you are my friend,_

_but you are made of bones..."_

Then he slits my throat _**quickly. **_

"Goodbye, Sam Evans..." was the last thing I heard.

Black.


	4. SUDDEN

**A/N: I've gotten an overwhelming amount of votes to keep one particular person alive. Interesting. **

**I CREATED A RUBBISH ADVERTISEMENT FOR THIS FANFIC: h t t p : / / n e v e r m o r e f a I r y. d e v I a n t ar t c o m /a r t/ I n s t r u c t i o n s – O n – T h e – B a c k – 1 9 0 5 9 3 9 1 2**

**(take out the spaces, it's totally worth it) **

**Note: It's pretty obvious who's POV this is from, I didn't try to keep it from you. And none of you voted to have her die, but her death was vital so information could be told. Sorry.**

**And last chapter's song was Skeleton Song by Kate Nash, if you were wondering.**

I told Kurt everything in a hasty rush over the phone, hoping he'll understand. Dammit, why can't he be at McKinely instead of Dalton?

"Mike and Sam?" He squeaked. "Murdered?"

"Yeah. And they both had cards in their hand. _**FIRST **_and _**QUICKLY. **_I have no clue what they mean. Kurt, I'm scared."

"It's gonna be okay," he said, voice comforting.

"Quinn was bawling her eyes out, and in glee nobody's singing. At all."

"I know, Cedes. You want me to come over after school?"

"That'd be great." I hang up the phone after a goodbye, and go back to the choir room.

"Mercedes, good. You're back. We have some important matters to attend to regarding the horrendous deaths of some of our friends," Rachel said. Her voice wasn't loud and obnoxious like usual, it was sore and raw.

I sigh, and plop down next to a somber Quinn.

"We have to figure out who's killing them," Rachel says.

Mr. Schue doesn't say a word. Just sits there. Sad.

"What do you mean kill_ing_? They're already dead," Puck says.

"Do you honestly believe that they're the only one who're going to be murdered? I bet you there's going to be more victims," Rachel says. Everyone collectively gasps, searching around wildly, expecting the killer to pop up and strike again. I squeeze Quinn's hand tightly.

"They won't while I'm around!" Puck says, standing up.

Finn stands up as well. "We can't let the murderer kill anymore!"

Mr. Schue finally jumps in. "Guys! We can't jump to conclusions!"

Artie clears his throat. "Mr. Schue, two of our friends have recently been murdered. We want revenge. We want justice."

"Let me at 'em!" Santana says.

This is getting way out of hand.

"Go home. Get some rest," Mr. Schue says. I nod, and everyone starts whispering to each-other wildly. Quinn rests her head on my shoulder.

_Later_

Kurt and I watch reruns of Next Top Model in my room, barely even registering whatever Tyra Banks is saying.

"Mercedes! You got a letter!" My mom calls. I sigh, getting up from the bed. She hands me a crisp white envelope.

"What is it?" Kurt asks when I get back.

"A letter. Probably from Grandma." I tear it open.

A playing card is inside.

Kurt and I gawk at it.

"What does it say?" Kurt asks, jumping from the bed and grabbing it.

_**SUDDEN.**_

My lip quivers.

Oh my god.

I'm going to die.

"I'm going to die."

"That's right," a voice says from the windowsill. Kurt and I both turn our heads.

Someone in a oversized black hoodie that covers their face is crouched on the windowsill, cigarette dangling in his fingers. Knife in the other hand.

I can almost see the smirk they probably have.

"Hello Mercedes. Hello Kurt. Glad you both can make it."

I slowly back towards my bedroom door, twisting the knob.

Locked.

The Killer ignores me. He turns towards Kurt.

"I don't have long, so listen closely." The Killer speaks in long hisses of edgy sentences. "Mercedes, doll, you don't have a chance. Escape is impossible. Get familiar with that fact now." I nod slowly, and watch as he/she takes a long drag of his cigarette. Blows out the smoke. "Kurt? Congratulations. You're my official Messenger. You are to tell the rest exactly what happens here. Tell them what the cards mean. After every murder I make, I will give you the card that went with it. Here are the first two." The Killer flicks _**FIRST **_and _**QUICKLY **_at poor Kurt. "I'll also give you the pictures of the corpse." Two pictures of Mike and Sam, dead, are also given to him. Kurt stares at them blankly, then looks up at me, tears in his eyes. He knows I'll soon be in his picture album.

"So," The Killer continues. "You get to live a bit longer. Congrats, again. But you must show everyone the pictures and the cards. If you don't, you're killed. Instantaneously."

The Killer turns to me. I'm crying now, knowing my fate.

"As for you, Mercedes. Your death will be quite_** SUDDEN!"**_

Then he throws the knife at me with deadly accuracy. It pierces my heart.

Kurt screams my name.

I collapse on the ground.

"_Now it's three in the morning and you're eating alone  
Oh the heart beats in its cage," _the voice sings softly.

Black. 


	5. EASY

**A/N: Oh god. I knew I was going to bring out the bloodlust in people, but not the GRUESOME LOATHING in people. "Make his guts be pulled out!" Uh...how I am supposed to respond to that? Don't worry, I'm not freaked out. I just laugh out loud. **

**READ THIS: I know you guys like to predict who's going to die and how, but a lot of you are making one huge mistake on exactly WHO is going to die. And no, I'm not talking about Kurt right now. This is one of the hints you'll find out in the next chapter.**

**Note: The song in the last chapter was Heart In A Cage by The Strokes. And you can tell who the character is in this one by process of elimination. **

When Kurt stormed in the choir room that next day, slamming down whatever was in his hand; I was curious. The rest of us gathered around what he put down.

I had to look.

Three cards. _**FIRST, QUICKLY, SUDDEN.**_

"Mike's, Sam's, and...Mercedes's," Kurt explained.

Then he took out three photographs.

Quinn screamed.

Artie almost puked.

Rachel paled and fainted.

Three pictures.

Of the corpses.

Mike cut up like a steak, bloody and stuff.

Sam's throat stained red.

Mercedes...stabbed in the heart.

I stumbled back a bit.

"Kurt? Are you the one killing everyone?" I had to ask it. I had to ask.

"What? No!" Kurt shivered, and his lips quivered. "Apparently, I'm the messenger. I must deliver the cards and pictures once they've been murdered."

"Why are you here?" Quinn asks, finally stopped screaming. "What about Karofsky?"

"FUCK KAROFSKY! MY BEST FRIEND IS DEAD! MURDERED! I DON'T GIVE A SHIT ABOUT SOME OVERGROWN CLOSET BULLY!" Kurt screamed. I didn't know we were allowed to say fuck or shit here.

"What did you call me?" Karofsky asks, leaning up against the doorframe.

"YOU HEARD ME!" Kurt yelled. "AN OVERGROWN CLOSET BULLY!"

Uh...

"HOW ABOUT YOU SAY THAT TO MY FACE?" Karofsky asks, marching up.

"FINE!" Kurt put one foot back, elbow stretched back, and punched him as hard as he could.

POW!

Karofsky stumbles back, falling to the ground. Face bloody. "Holy shit..."

I stare. "Whoa."

Kurt cracked his knuckles. "I'm a pissed off gay kid who's friends are being murdered and is being held hostage by some psycho killer. Don't. Fuck. With. Me."

Puck high fived Kurt. (**a/n: badass!kurt makes an appearance. I need you guys to relook Kurt in this one. He's not messing around anymore. And yes, I will add in notes now and more ways I'm involved in THE GAME.)**

"Even with your wild gay anger, you still couldn't punch like that," Puck pointed out.

"Dalton has a gym," Kurt said.

"Stop the violence," Britt says, a little late.

I finally spoke, "We need to plan this. We can't just sit around like...sitting...ducks. Then we'll all be dead."

"You're right. So right now, we know that if you get a card in the mailbox, then that means your dead," Rachel starts, mind wheels turning.

"Right," Kurt says. "The Killer said to Mercedes: _'__Mercedes, doll, you don't have a chance. Escape is impossible. Get familiar with that fact now.'"_

"Creepy," Santana says. "But that also means something. I think, if you get a card, that's it. No hope. Because he'll hunt you. No matter what."

"How do you know the killer is a 'he'?"

"I don't. But to generalize, I'm calling The Killer a he. Now if you're done interrupting, then listen. He is probably psycho. When hunters hunt, they have to get a kill. If they don't, the serious ones just keep it up. Until they get that kill." Santana looks around now, eyes hard and serious. "This guy? Is serious. This isn't simply murder. This is a game. We're the pawns. He's setting us up for the kill."

"And I'm guessing this guy is smart," Artie pipes up. "He's not the one to mess up, I can see that. He knows exactly what he's doing, especially with Kurt. Showing us the pictures and cards to scare us. Paranoid."

"And what do the words on the back mean?" Tina asks.

"I know that one," Puck says. "It's the way you die. Mike died _**FIRST**_. Sam died _**QUICKLY**_, because of the slit on his throat. I don't know about Mercedes, though."

"It was so fast. He just threw the knife, and she died," Kurt whispers.

"_**SUDDEN," **_I said. "Oh, god. That's...that's sick! Twisted!"

Mr. Schue still hadn't said a word, even at the pictures. "You guys are on your own," he says.

"What? Mr. Schue, you can't just...leave us!" I say.

Mr. Schue walks out.

"Well, he's no help," Santana says. "We've always been on our own, in the end. And right now, this isn't singing a tune or dancing." she chuckles. "This is actually a matter of life or death. How quaint."

"I want to go home," Britt says. Santana rubs her shoulder.

"Yeah."

"Wait a minute, guys," Rachel says. "I think we should pair up. That way, maybe, just maybe, we can help."

"No. I am not going to pair up. I'm not going to watch another die," Kurt says.

"Fine. Tina and Artie. Brittany and Santana. Puck and Quinn." Rachel looks at me. "And I guess we're together, if you like it or not."

I look at my brother. "Bye, Kurt." Then I turn to Rachel. "Let's go."

_Later_

"Go ahead," Rachel says. "You're going to have to look sometime."

I stare at my mailbox.

I slowly open the flap.

Nothing.

Except for the King of Clubs.

"Oh, no..." Rachel whispers.

I gently take it out.

_**EASY.**_

"I'M NOT AFRAID!" I yell, waiting. Rachel gets behind me.

"I love you, Finn," she tells me. I squeeze her hand.

"Goodbye, Rachel."

Waiting.

BANG.

A bullet goes through my arm. I'm down instantly.

"That was too _**easy," **_the killer says.

"I'm fine-" I say through gritted teeth, trying to calm down Rachel, who was screaming.

"Oh, but you won't be for long." Where is that voice coming from.

"Hello, Finn. Your death will mark the end of the beginning. Then we will go into the middle of the deaths. Where they will get more brutal and gruesome. Hooray. So lucky you, you'll death will be easier than the rest," the voice continues. Rachel's still sobbing, clutching me. "Rachel, I'll be back for you later."

"Oh, god..." Rachel whispers.

"Rachel, it'll be fine," I say. "I'll be okay. It doesn't hurt that much," I lie. " Just, get away from here."

Then the voice sings.

"_The star maker says, "It ain't so bad"  
The dream maker's gonna make you mad  
The spaceman says, "Everybody look down  
It's all in your mind" " _He sings.

Then another bullet goes into my chest.

Black.


	6. UNKNOWN

**A/N: , here's the next chapter. It's not who you think it is, guys. **

I like being popular.

My last school kind of sucked.

Now people high five me in the hallways, and I get to be happier.

So when Rachel called me, the last person I'd expect to call, telling me about the deaths.

I didn't know Sam.

I knew Finn. That didn't really phase me, his death, as awful as that sounds. It's not like he ever talked to me.

Of course I knew Mike...

Mercedes...didn't expect that.

"And-and I think I'm next," she says, sniffling.

I didn't know what to say.

That hasn't happened since I transferred.

Now I always know what to say, exactly how, and it felt great.

But.

The past is catching up with me...

_Later_

"Delivery," my roommate Brain says, tossing it on the bad. A care package from Mom? I tear it open, expecting cookies or something.

An ace falls out.

Like the card.

Ace of Spades.

I pick it up gingerly.

It's a nice card, soft to touch.

I turn it over.

A word is hastily scribbled on there. With sharpie.

_**UNKNOWN.**_

Brian at it. "Unknown? Is that some Las Vegas casino or something?"

"I don't think so." This is what Rachel was saying.

I take a walk in the gardens.

Yeah, schools in Switzerland are huge. Especially boarding schools.

I tuck my hands in my pocket. I could see my breath.

Nobody's in the garden.

I sigh, sitting on a bench.

So alone.

Looking around quickly, I take out a small pocket notebook, and start writing.

_**I think I am going to die.**_

_**Murdered, actually. I have no idea why. There's no possible explanation. I got this card. Playing card, not Hallmark card. Small. **_

_**If I do die, I want people to know some things.**_

_**Mom, I love you. I know that sounds really cheesy, but I do.**_

_**Thanks for supporting me when I told you.**_

_**Dad, rot in hell. Switzerland won't change who I am.**_

_**Make sure this gets back to Lima, Ohio.**_

_**So then they can know what made me move in the first place.**_

_**Everyone, I'm**_

"Writing in a diary? How feminine. No wonder your dad kicked you out," A voice behind me said. "And yes, I am the killer."

I don't move. "Hello."

"Do you miss everyone? I think someone missed you. Too bad they're dead."

"Why are you going to kill me?" I ask.

"At one point or another, you were apart of them; miles aren't going to change that."

"I was never apart of them. Maybe I stood, and danced, and mouthed the words with them. But they never counted me as one of them. I was forgotten. And I'm perfectly fine with that!" I spat. I turned around, facing the voice.

Tall. Lean. Deadly. Like a cougar. But his hood covered his face, making him the perfect enemy.

"Oh, so many problems. Boo hoo. What about me? I'm a psychopath killer who had the trouble of coming all the way down to fucking Switzerland just to kill you. Then I have to hide the body, and make it all the way back to Ohio."

"You don't have to kill."

The killer staggered back, holding his heart. Mocking me. "Oh, that really hit home. Now I'll become a better person and never kill again and go fuck butterflies!" His voice is becoming hard now. Ice cold, puncturing me. "The world isn't all about putting a smile on your face and wishing for the best! Sometimes it's just about winning. And goddamn, I am going to win."

I take a large step back.

And then the guy starts singing.

"_Let's take life, nice and easy,  
We could go, somewhere breezy,  
but it gets so complicated,  
EVERYONE I FUCKING HATE IT."_

I stand my ground.

"How are you going to win?"

"You will never know," he says.

_**UNKNOWN. **_


	7. BRUTAL

**A/N: Sigh. While I was off in recovery land from my illness and drifting in and out of sleep, I kept having nightmares about this chapter. Not scary ones, just fearful. Then one where Sue shot me with an arrow. Fun. So I stepped away from this story for a bit, then came back. Oh, and I felt really stupid for posting that review. It just made me seem like a bitter person. I'm a writer, and I should actually accept that stuff, rather than get revenge. **

**Note: The song in this is Blinding by Florence & The Machine. I find it amazing and the lyrics fit this chapter nicely, so if you feel the need to listen to it, be my guest. I don't own it. **

"Matt Rutherford," Kurt said, putting down a picture. (**a/n yeah, it was Matt. Not Jesse. Ha.)**

"What about him?" Puck asked.

"Nothing. All I got was UNKNOWN and a picture of him dead."

"Creepy," he said.

"I still think you're the killer," Santana says to Kurt. I look at her.

"What killer?" I ask.

"The person who's been killing our friends, sweetie," she said.

"Oh."

"Me? The killer?" Kurt asked. "Do you think I like having to get these pictures? To give them to you? It makes me feel guilty that I can't do shit to stop any of this?"

"Don't you find it suspicious that you somehow have all of the pictures and cards each day?" Santana says. I look up at her with worried eyes.

"_Two cups of flour," she says, handing me a weird looking cup. It doesn't look right, but Santana knows cooking. I pour the white stuff in, and hand it to her. She cracks the eggs, and stirs some more._

_Then she makes globs of it on a pan and puts it in the oven. _

_Later, the oven makes a ringing sound, and like magic, Santana takes the pan out with cookies on it. They smell good, like rainbows. And friendship._

I come back to real life. That's been happening a lot. Remembering stuff.

"I DIDN'T CHOSE FOR THIS TO HAPPEN!" Kurt yells. Everyone's been yelling. It makes my ears hurt.

"This is sad," I say.

The room freezes like popsicles in the freezer.

"What's sad?" Santana asks.

"All of our friends our dying!" I say, louder. Inside voice, I remind myself.

"She's right," Rachel says, speaking up. "We've spent all of this time arguing, and we should be mourning. Mike? Sam? Mercedes? Finn? Even Matt? They are all dead. We would people to shed a tear over us if we were dead, right? So I say we all take a moment of silence."

We have a quick quiet time.

Then Santana speaks up.

"A plan is what we need."

"A plan?" Quinn repeats, and it echoes(I learned that word last week) throughout the room. "What plan? This guy? Is smarter than us. We're just going to go into a repeat. We all die. Under the ground. Maybe it's for the best. Everyone wants us to be dead, anyways."

"The police?" Rachel asks.

Quinn snorts, but nothing funny was said. "Police? Are crap in this town. Looked at all of the murders and proclaimed them unrelated, random, unimportant."

"But they're our friends..." I say.

"So?" Quinn asks me, looking into my eyes.

Artie squeezes my hand. "And we will never forget them."

* * *

Sometimes when I teach little kids how to dance, everything seems better.

They smile at me, and I get to smile back.

Everything's quiet there. I put my index finger to my lips and they do the same, and it's quiet.

Then I show them how to point their toes. And how to spin in circles.

They call me Miss Brittany, and they all look up at me with bright eyes.

I hope they like me.

Sometimes Santana makes brownies with me, and I give them to the kids. They grab them eagerly and chorus a 'thank you'. I always say 'you're welcome'.

People think I'm stupid.

Whenever I tell Artie that, he tells me this very carefully:

"_Brittany, you are not stupid. You are not dumb, nor will you ever be. You are simply in another world that you've created on your own, and no one understands the language you speak there. You don't understand their language there. That's how it will be. You'll learn the language, and we will learn yours. For now, just enjoy who and where you are right now and right here."_

I'm not sure I understood what he was saying.

But I think about that whenever I don't understand things.

I'm thinking about it as I walk out of my dance studio, in my regular clothes. I twirl a piece of hair in my fingers. Still thinking.

Someone clears their throat next to me.

"Brittany Susan Pierce?" A voice gruffs. I turn towards the hooded man.

"Yes. Are you a stranger?"

"In a way, no. Yes and no. We've met, never formally. But I know you."

"Oh."

"Anyways, here's a delivery."

He hands me a card.

I look at the writing on the back.

_**BRUTAL.**_

Then he smiles at me, teeth white and shiney.

"Enjoy life, sweetheart," he says, patting my shoulder.

Sweetheart.

I have an urge to call Santana, and I do.

"Santana?" I ask when she says hello.

_Britt? Is that you? What's up?_

"I got a card."

She's really quiet on the other side.

_Britt? Sweetie, a playing card?_

"Yep. It has a queen on it."

_Oh. Oh, god. What does it say on it?_

"Brutal." The man smiles at me again.

Santana starts crying. She's probably sad. Have I mad her sad.

_Okay. Okay. Britt, I'm coming._

"Tell her it's too late," the man whispers in my ear.

"Santana? The man says it's too late."

_What man? WHAT MAN?_

"A man with a hoodie and shiny teeth."

_Walk away from the man, Britt. No, run. RUN. _

"Why?"

"Because I'm going to kill you," the man says. Then he grabs the phone from me.

_Britt? BRITT!_

"I love you, Santana," I say, hoping she can still hear me. "Tell Artie I love him, too. And my bunny. Goodbye."

Then the man closes the phone, smashing it with his foot.

He takes my hand, and it's smooth to touch. He leads me.

He leads me into the old abandoned thrift store. He closes the door, and the windows, and the curtains.

Then he pushes me to the ground.

"Sweetie, I need you to not scream. Okay?" he asks. I nod, facing him. I still can't see his face. He's wearing a mask. But he still smiles. A sad smile. Sad sad smile. Then he takes a baseball, and hits it against my legs.

Crack.

I close my eyes really tight, and try to make the pain go away. He keeps hitting. Crackle. Snap. I'm still waiting for the pop.

"_Santana, it hurts," I say as we go into the emergency room.  
"It's okay, Britt. Just a broken ankle or something."_

"_Will it be better?"_

_She smiles at me. "Just think of a good memory, okay?"_

_Then she holds my hand._

That's the good memory.

"Your legs are broken, Brittany," the man says. "That means you can't run, okay? You're so big and strong, and you could run pretty far."

Then he kneels next to my face. His breath smells like mint. Like tic-tacs.

Tears start to fall down my face.

"Don't cry, Sweetie." It doesn't sound the same as when Santana says It.

"Don't call me Sweetie," I say, trying to sound mean.

He holds up his hands. "Trying to make you comfortable." He takes out two little pills. He holds them in his palm. "In fact, I'm not so bad. I'm not going to make you suffer. But it's for the best that they think I did. Make you suffer. Because a constant state of fear is better for everyone."

I look up at him. "Are you not going to hurt me?"

"I never said that. I just said I'm not going to make you suffer." He continues to look at the pills. "These pills make you go numb. You feel nothing. Then I can hurt you, and you die. But then you wouldn't have to cry. Because when you cry, I feel cruel. I know I'm cruel, but I don't need to be reminded of that fact. So please, take the pills."

He puts them in my mouth, and I dry swallow them. They feel like a lump in my throat, and it doesn't make me feel better. But soon everything seems foggy and like I'm dreaming.

Then he starts to sing like a songbird.

"_Seems that I have been held, in some dreaming state  
A tourist in the waking world, never quite awake  
No kiss, no gentle word could wake me from this slumber  
Until I realize that it was you who held me under._

_Felt it in my fist, in my feet, in the hollows of my eyelids  
Shaking through my skull, through my spine and down through my ribs  
_He starts to take a knife, and cuts around my lips. I taste the blood, but barely. Like my tongue is swollen. He cuts everywhere. Knuckles. Ankles. Eyelids. I start to see red, like splashes of paint. He starts to get out other items, other ways to kill. I stop caring, and melt into his song. _  
"No more dreaming of the dead as if death itself was undone  
No more calling like a crow for a boy, for a body in the garden  
No more dreaming like a girl so in love, so in love  
No more dreaming like a girl so in love, so in love  
No more dreaming like a girl so in love with the wrong world."_

Then I finally close my eyes to the beautiful voice.

Dreaming.


	8. MISSING

**A/N: I heard a lot of "that chapter was so much better written!" Well, yeah. I actually cared about it. Whenever I care about a chapter, I usually write better. I haven't cared about this fic. It's really just for experimenting.**

**Note: I have an idea for a really surprise ending. But I'm not sure if people would like it. So I need one volunteer to hear the ending, through private message, and tell me if it would be okay. But if you do volunteer than that means you may have to hear the ending of the story, so if you don't want the story to be "ruined" (it would still be good), then just review about the story and nothing else.**

**LAST CHANCE TO SUBMIT WHO YOU WANT TO DIE!

* * *

**

Time is drifting. I'm in a grey classroom on a grey seat with grey people saying grey words. Color me grey. But the next picture is bright red, splattered with blood.

I couldn't look away if I tried.

People speak. Some whisper.

I start to cry.

The heartless soul begins to cry.

I sink to the floor, my eyes brimming with the water.

The picture is still flashing in my head.

She has no arm.

Her face is cut and torn.

A heart is carved into her cheek.

Like a kiss.

A poison kiss.

Shocked, they are.

To see this heartless soul cry.

I create paint. I write poetry. I know pain.

Pain this is.

My thoughts are not mine. They do not feel like mine. They sound like ones of those who have lost something precious.

I can wallow here until I'm next.

Just sinking...

"SNAP OUT OF IT!" Rachel says acerbically, yelling right next to my ear.

I blink once. Everyone's surrounding my weeping body.

"It'll be okay," Kurt says.

"YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO BE THE TOUGH ONE!" Rachel continues, and I see that she's crying too. "YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO NOT CRY, TO TAKE A DEEP BREATH AND CHARGE AHEAD! AND GODDAMMIT, WE ARE NOT GOING TO LOSE SOMEONE AS VALUABLE AS YOU TO TEARS RIGHT NOW, BITCH!"

I slowly sit up, meeting her face. Then I slap her. "DON'T CALL ME A BITCH!"

Rachel smiles. "Better."

"Poor Britt..." Kurt says, looking off into the distance. I think we all went into a trance. Artie sure isn't himself. He's just mass, taking up particles.

Sue would kill me if she knew I was crying.

I will push through, for Britt.

I take a huge, heaving breath.

And I stand up, hands balled into fists.

"Fight back," I say.

"Yeah. That's obvious. We've only been saying that everyday," Tina says. Everyone whips their head towards the goth mute.

"Did you give an actual opinion?" I ask.

"Yup. And now I'm going to give another one. This all seems unlikely. Why us? Why now? There has to be some ulterior motive." Tina shrugs. "Just saying."

It's all I could do not to slap her.

"She's right. Maybe we should be trying to find out the identity?" Artie asks.

A loud _**BEEP BEEP BEEP **_is heard from Kurt's phone.

He opens his phone.

Reads.

Then silently passes the phone around.

_**From: Unknown Number**_

_**Your friends are asking some dangerous questions. Deadly, even. Tell them to watch their tongues.**_

"So if we found out who he is, we're dead?" Artie asks.

"Yes," Kurt says. "And is everyone convinced I'm not the killer, now?"

"Yeah. Yeah," I say.

Still thinking.

I think better when I'm on the top of the pyramid, with the sun beating down on me, someone screaming obscenities. But it's too quiet.

"I'm going out into the hallway," I mumble. Maybe there would be people screaming and chattering in there. I move my legs towards the door, stepping out onto the hallways, always so clean. Then I sit on the cold tiles, looking up at the fluorescent lights. It's empty. Always empty.

Tick tock.

I've been hearing it in my head recently.

Tick tock.

Not like a clock ticking.

But like a person saying it in a small voice.

Tick tock.

I bring my knees up tightly to my chest.

"It's hard," Wheels says, pushing up his glasses. "For the past couple of days, I've thought: _I wish I had been first. _Because sometimes the pain of losing them is harder than death itself."

If she was still here, I would spit in his face and call him a loser. Then I would link pinkies and skip off with her, warm body pulsing next to me.

But there's an empty space where she would be, and it makes me see what Cripple is saying. I'd much rather be the dead one then have a gaping hole accompanying my loneliness.

He offers a hand.

I take it, squeezing tight.

"Fuck the world. Fuck this killer who thinks he can fuck with us. He can take every last one of us, but we will go down with defiance and dignity," I say, my voice no longer shaking.

"Santana? Are you scared?"

"Of course not." At his doubtful looks, I continue. "I'm scared of the thought of Brittany being gone. I'm scared that I won't have the chance to say goodbye, like she did. I'm scared that I won't be able to fight back. But I am not scared of that dick," I say.

"Santana?"

"What?"

"Okay, so don't take this the wrong way, but can you please stay over at my house tonight? My dad's away at a conference, and unlike you, I'm scared shitless," he says, and looks at me with those huge eyes of those.

Again, I would say no. That would be rude to Brittany.

But this won't be romantic.

This is survival.

And, having an ally tonight won't be that bad.

* * *

**A/N2: For those of you who have read my fic Stop and Survive(not advertising, I swear), you will understand why I had to have an Artie/Santana alliance.**

**

* * *

**

The view from Artie's window is still grey. I don't know why everything formed that horrendous color, but I'm certain it happened as soon as I closed that cell phone after Britt gave me the dial tone.

Tick tock.

Artie sighs, turning on the stove. He has this odd way off cooking. He asks me brings the table close up to the counter, and just sits on the table, cooking from there. I sit there for a while, watching his hands move in a flurry of motions, cooking a meal like I paint a picture. But eventually I got bored, and started to prepare for a surprise ambush.

"Does your father have any guns?" I ask.

"No, but I do. He gave it to me because he knew I wouldn't be able to run if a murderer came into the house." His eyes go dark and gets this monotone laugh. "My old man was smarter than I thought," he deadpanned.

"Where is it?" I ask.

"Under the bed, I think?" Artie says.

Tick tock.

His bed is like, super low to the ground, so it's a tough reach to get under the bed. But sure enough, my fingers wrap around the cold weapon.

It also brushes across something small and square.

A card.

After I take out the gun, I go back for the card.

It's even colder than the gun.

_**MISSING.**_

I grab the gun and run back to the kitchen, producing the card to Artie.

He analyzes it rather calmly. "So, this is the death bringer."

Tick tock.

"But who is it for?" I ask.

No answer.

"Well, it seems like he, or she, may be giving us some time," Artie begins absently. "So, should we say goodbye to some people?"

I would only want to say goodbye to Brittany, so anyone else seems pointless.

"Aren't we going to fight back?" I ask.

"Of course. But just in case..."

"Just in case," I echo. "Maybe we should write a letter?"

After a few minutes at the table, the gun in between us, we manage to produce a real goodbye, not the melodramatic crap someone like Berry would write.

_Dear, Well, Everyone Who Cares,_

_Our names? Artie Abrams and Santana Lopez. There have been some murders lately, and we just lost someone who was very dear to us. But, being proud people, we are determined to get some revenge. In this process we may lose our lives, so if we do, just know that this is not the end. _

_Sincerely, Us._

As soon as we dot the period, a figure is in the doorway to the kitchen.

"Can I read it?" The Killer asks.

Tick tock.

"Be my guest," I say, whipping the paper over.

He quickly sweeps over the letter, showing no emotion.

I mean, maybe he did show emotion. I couldn't see his face.

Artie just sits, like he always has done.

But I notice how fast his breathing has gotten.

The tension in the air is so palpable that I feel like I could gag on it.

Instantly shattered by piercing laughter.

"I admire your spirit!" The Killer says. "It's cute, really. How you think you can survive. Actually, I spent a lot of time planning your death, Santana."

So it's me.

I expect Artie to be relieved, but he just offers his hand to me.

I'm bewildered by the offer, but I instinctively grab his hand, squeezing it. In the other hand, I hold the gun.

"Santana, you are missing. Isn't that weird to you?" The Killer begins. "It means, that you will come with me. I'm not saying willingly; that card hasn't come yet. You can resist all you want. But if you run, if you slip away from my grasp?"

I already know.

"Everyone is dead. All of your friends. Even the cripple, here," he says, nodding towards Artie.

"Artie isn't a pawn!" I say.

"They all are. The difference between you and your friends is that I'm choosing to move you towards me next. Until I get to the last one. But you aren't the last one, so you shouldn't care."

"I'm not going with you," I say, chin raised high.

"You can see Brittany again."

Tick tock.

The room is grey again.

Grey faces and grey walls.

The gun in my hand is jet black, though.

And this bastard's blood will run red.

I raise it.

"Don't even think about it," The Killer says, smirking.

Artie freezes. "Santana!"

I finally notice the gun that's been subtly being pointed at Abrams right now.

Fucking-fucker.

"Like I care about that cripple," I bluff.

"Maybe you don't," The Killer says. "But you care about his connection to Brittany. He gets you right now, he empathizes the pain. Believe it or not, he's your strongest ally in your fucked up world."

My eyes lock with Artie's.

The trepidation that everyone knows finally comes to me.

"I'll go, I'll be your Missing. But when you try to kill me, ha, get ready for one hundred and twenty pounds of bitch."

I lower the gun.

"Santana, don't do this," Artie pleads.

I smile at him. "Now I can see Brittany. It all works out, Artie. You stay cool, kay?"

The whole process was becoming very surreal.

"Goodbye, Santana," he says.

I realize with a pang in my heart that he will be my last goodbye.

"Goodbye."

Tick tock.

The Killer leads me out of the house, singing.

"_You know I've done it before,_

_And I can do it some more,_

_I've got my eye on the score,_

_I'm gonna cut through the floor,_

_It's too late,_

_it's too soon,_

_Or is it..._

_Tick Tick Tick Tick Tick..._"

I wait for the last word of the song.

"_Boom."_

It's all grey.


	9. PSYCHIC

I squeezed my eyes shut.

Kneeling.

Praying? No.

When I open my eyes, the reflection is still there.

Staring right back.

Mocking.

"FUCK!" I scream, and my fist comes in contact with the clean glass.

It shatters, the pieces falling into my sink.

I burst into tears, and soon my face is wet and salty. When I try to wipe away the tears, it just stains my cheek red.

I forgot my hand was bleeding.

Squatting on my bathroom tiles, I weep.

How many of my friends are dead? I trace the answer with my finger in the grime soaked tiles. Seven..

"Hurry up!" I yell into the walls, and it echoes throughout my soul. Such sweet vibrations. Like drums, they are. Constantly beating.

"I was thinking this time I could draw it out," a voice says. He sits besides me. I do not meet his eyes, but the mask covers a great deal of skin.

"Draw out my death, or are you going to monologue here?" I ask.

"Nah, that's for the epilogue," he says. Then he starts chuckling like he's said the funniest thing in the world. I don't know what the joke is. But I do notice his laughter is like my screams; the same sweet vibrations.

"Just give me the playing card," I say. He taps his knee lightly.

"But, you kind of cheated. You didn't go to school to see the pretty pictures of your friend."

"Which friend?" I ask in a low whisper.

"Santana."

"Oh."

He pulls up his hood farther, so I can't even see his hair. "Here." He holds the card out between his index and second finger. I take it delicately, because it did hold my fate.

**PSYCHIC.**

"Interesting," I murmur. He hums in agreement. I toss it across the room. "Does it mean anything?"

"Of course it does. There's meaning behind everything."

"Are the deaths of my classmates symbols for your..." I am at a loss for words. "bloodlust, perhaps?"

He grins, and that's one thing I can characterize about him. He certainly has a set of pearly whites. Reminds me of a shark.

"You're a clever girl. Quiet, shy, unnoticed. Clever. I wonder how easy you'll be to kill?" he wonders.

I look up at the ceiling. "Maybe I'll go willingly."

He tsks, waving his finger. "Not apart of the instructions, but not allowed. I can tell you who will get those particular instructions, though. I'll pretty much tell you everything."

"Why?"

"Number one," he says, listing it on his finger. "You're going to be dead, so I doubt it matters. Number two? You got **PSYCHIC. **Ergo, you get the wonderful knowledge."

"You heartless bastard," I say with gritted teeth.

"Deary me," he says, gasping. "Heartless? I deny that." He forcefully brings my palm to his chest. "You feel it beating, do you not?" I nod, my hand acknowledging the steady thump. Reminding once more of my vibrations, but in a different way. "Oh, I have a heart to be shot or stabbed in, no doubt," he continues, "and if it cease to beat I should cease to be, but you know what I mean. I have no softness there, no sympathy, sentiment."

"Quoting Dickens?" I ask. "Isn't that cheating?"

"How so?"

"Well, the killer is supposed to be quick thinking in ways of clever responses. Slightly insane, but clever. Making me think. Stealing people's quotes isn't being clever, is it?"

He shakes his head. "That's where you're wrong. Knowing the quotes and managing to click them into context at an appropriate point shows intelligence, and I say that's pretty damn clever."

I manage to stand on my two shaky legs, and nod. "I suppose."

The Killer copies me, standing up. "Let's have a chat, Raven."

"Raven?" I ask.

"A pet name," he explains. "All of the black, the accusatory but watchful eyes; it all fits, right? So, I have named you Raven."

He takes me outside, the air being slightly chilly, but enough to make me sigh with contentedness. What a nice day to die.

"So, just tell me everything," I say. He nods.

"Well, let me tell you the scenes of the deaths before you," he says. I nod, tears in my eyes. "First up, Mike Chang. Well, he got **FIRST, **because of obvious reasons, and..."

In horrifying detail, The Killer spun the tales of the scenes of my friends' death. At first, I tried to block him out, by looking away at anything, anything. Children running in playgrounds, teenagers holding hands, just to distract me. I could never ignore Mike's death, of course. After that story, it started to get easier with each one he told me about. Because somehow, I managed to pretend it was all fiction, never happening. Never happened.

"Now, onto the future deaths..." he said, which made me have to stop walking down the street, and turn to him.

"Please, no," I whisper.

"Why not?" he asks, bewildered. "I thought the ones that had already died would be hard to hear, because you know that it happened. With the future ones you can give yourself false hope that, hell, I don't know, maybe changed my mind and not killed anyone." He chuckled. "Like that would ever happen."

I look off into the sun, that was just beginning to fall asleep. "Maybe it's because if I hear them, I know I wouldn't be able to warn them in time. Right?"

"Right."

"So, it's even more hopeless. That knowledge, is enough to break someone down."

"But I'm telling you anyways."

He does.

The rest of the cards.

Who they're assigned to.

The instructions that will be on the back.

And how it all ends.

All standing still. When he's done speaking, he just watches me, and I watch back.

Like a raven would.

Wind flows by us.

"You're next," he says.

And I run.

Weaving throughout the abandoned streets, I run.

"_A chase?" _his voice echoes throughout the city. He is after me, and probably much faster. "_Interesting, none of your friends has tried that tactic yet. It won't work, it never does...does it? But you already know that. So why bother?"_

I consider answering him.

"_I know," _he continues. "_Because you're a raven! Ravens fly, but not very high. Low, to watch. Did you know that ravens are signs of death? Fitting, perhaps?"_

I duck into a dead end street, surrounded by abandoned buildings.

I breath.

I still hear his voice.

"_Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,  
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,  
`Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, `art sure no craven." _

Cheater, I think. Taking even more quotes.

I back up into the building behind me, the stone rubbing against my back.

I'm still waiting.

Still watching.

He appears, no longer running. Slowly approaching.  
_"Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore..."_

I shut my eyes again.

He's so close I can feel his cool breath on my cheeks.

I don't dare open my eyes.

But I do recite the next line for him, "Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"

He leans in.

He holds my face with his hands. "The raven won't watch me with those eyes ever again!" he says, and a knife comes in contact with my eye. It cuts away, and blood spots my eyesight. I do not scream, but the pain reverberates throughout my body.

"And I quoth the raven," I say softly.

He whispers, "_Nevermore."_

Before he removes the other one, the other eye, he removes his mask.

"You were always so clever, so psychic," he tells me. "Too bad you weren't able to warn the others before you die."

I chuckle.

"The raven is always a warning," I say. "That will be enough."

**A/N: So, the killer does poetry this time instead of lyrics. Of course, The Raven is copyrighted with Mr. Poe. **

**Goodbye, Tina. **

**Oh, yes, I forgot: the option to vote for who you want to die is CLOSED. But just because that's no longer an option, doesn't mean you have to ignore the review button. **


	10. TOO LATE

**A/N: This story frustrates the crap out of me. It's so bad it makes me flinch.**

**If I told you I have a much(MUCH!) better story in the works, would you read it?**

**NOTE: I got substantially less reviews when the voting closed. Well, here's another question: How would you like Rachel to die? Now, I'm not saying Rachel is next. I'm not saying she's the only one left to die. I just need some ideas on the actual death. RACHEL ONLY. **

No one went to school. With only, what, five of us left? What's the point? Instead, we ditched, and went to Kurt's house. His dad was absent, and his mom broke down into chest throbbing sobs when she saw us.

"Why? Why do you live when he dies?" Ms. Hudson cries at us. All of us flinch, not meeting her eyes.

"She's been screaming that to me ever since Finn died," Kurt says. Everyone nods sympathetically. The path to his basement bedroom shows the grief that's been going through the house over the past few weeks. Any picture containing Finn's face has been torn and stripped off the frame. Broken drumstick chunks have been thrown in trash. The TV no longer blares the game. It just, feels, empty. Y'know?

We all sit on the floor of Kurt's bedroom, and no one wants to speak.

Quinn clears her throat. "Show us the picture, Kurt."

Kurt shakily tosses the horrible thing. _Tina. _

_I had loved her once._

Her eyes were just empty sockets. Tongue removed. Hair in chopped pieces. Torn chest, like the strings keeping her together just tore apart.

"I'm out of ideas," Puck says, pushing the photo away.

"But..." Kurt says. It's useless. No one has a clue what they're doing. We're sitting ducks.

"Maybe we should attempt to find out the identity of the killer?" Rachel suggests. Everyone shrugs, having no other better idea.

"Remember? The last time we tried to identify him, he threatened everyone would die right there and then," I pointed out.

"I don't think that applies now. There's so few of us, and it wouldn't be as fun to just kill us all now. He's obviously put a lot of effort into this," Rachel says. "Let's think about what we know."

"But out of us alive, only Kurt and Artie has seen this dude," Puck says.

"Well, then they'll tell us what they know," she says. She turns to Kurt. "Anything?"

"He sang," Kurt says immediately.

"That seems really important. Did his voice sound familiar at all?" she asks.

"Yeah. It sounded like he was our age."

"So we can eliminate any adult, right?"

"Dammit!" Puck says. "I honestly thought it was Mr. Schue."

"No," I say. "He didn't have the same stature as Mr. Schue. He was skinnier, more flexible. But I thought it was odd how Mr. Schue suddenly abandoned us, don't you think?"

"Blackmail," Quinn cuts in. "The killer is keeping Mr. Schue away from us, from interfering."

"Interesting theories," Rachel says. "But let's stay focus. Who is our age, and we know?"

"Karofsky?" I offer.

"No," Kurt says forcefully. "He may be a total ass and I hate him to death, but he's just confused. Not a murder, despite what he wants us to believe."

"What about the voice?" Rachel prods, like we're children. "You said it was familiar. From where?"

"I don't know. I bet if I heard it again, I would recognize it."

"The next time you hear it, you'll be dead. Think!" Rachel demands.

"I don't know!"

"THINK HARDER!" Rachel yells.

"DAMMIT!" Kurt says, standing up. "I can't, okay? I just can't remember." He presses his lips together, holding his temple. "Just move onto something else."

"What if we all kill ourselves?" …. All eyes turn to the quiet whisper from Quinn. Her eyes are watery, and hands are clenches. Her fingernails are biting into the skin, and she's grinding her teeth.

"Quinn, what do you mean?" I ask softly.

"He wouldn't win then," she says, looking up at all of us. "Who could he kill if there were none left?"

Puck shakes his head. "That's shitty logic. He would still win, because he knew he drove us to it. He would still classify that as a win."

"Whoa, Puck actually has some sound reasoning. Who'da guess?" Kurt snipes.

"Guys-" I say.

"Shut it, Hummel," Puck says.

"No, you shut it Puckerman!"

"Guys-"

"I didn't do anything!"

"Except be a total ass for about three years."

"Will you _ever_ get over that?"

"No, frankly."

"You are so-"

"GUYS!" I shout. "Stop this! There's no use in petty arguing." Kurt rolls his eyes, and Puck scoffs.

"Artie, did you notice anything about the killer?" Rachel asks me.

"No. I didn't recognize his voice."

"Damn," she sighs.

_._

Kurt pulls a cell out of his pocket, sighing. "It's him." He flips it open, and presses the SPEAKERPHONE button.

"Hello, glee club," a voice said. It sounds like he's talking through a voice modulator, making it seem like a construed machine. It's very labored, like he's breathing through his mouth, exhausted.

"Hello," we all say at once, monotone. Out eyes are glazed over, unfocused.

I realize that we hadn't been getting any sleep since this shit began.

"Artie Abrams is needed at home right now," the killer continues.

My hands grip the wheels tightly. No one looks me in the eye. Tears start to well up, and I stare into my lap.

"Okay," I whisper.

Rolling up to the front door seems a lot differently when you're about to die.

The grass is bolder, the sun is brighter.

The day seems to sweet to lose.

Damn, I hate this.

But what the hell am I supposed to do?

"_You have these puppy dog eyes," Brittany says. "It's so sweet. I wanna take you home."_

Maybe I could beg? Pathetically beg?

The living room is still. So still. I sort of wish Santana was here. She's much braver than me, and it wouldn't be so bad to die with someone else. I would never wish Brittany was here. She did not deserve to die.

"Mr. Killer?" I ask, voice ringing loud and clear in the empty(?) room. "I know you're listening. I know you want to kill me. I'm asking you not to. Please. I have a family. I have friends, well, I did have friends. I still like to breathe. I expected to be handicapped forever, but now I'm going to be dead forever much sooner. I..." I take a huge breath. "I want to ask you, to maybe, look into your heart? And not kill me?"

A hand comes from behind me, sliding a card into my lap. An ace, but I don't know which one. I never learned.

_**TOO LATE. **_

"What does that mean?" I ask, studying the card.

He points around the room, and I see pools of gasoline everywhere. How could I have not noticed that before? He starts to pour more around the room, and I know I can't stop him.

He starts singing.

_My soul starts spinning again  
I can't stop feeling  
No, I won't stop feeling  
And the fun's not fun anymore  
I can't stop feeling  
No, I won't stop feeling _

The voice tugs at my memories. I should know this. I haven't heard it often, but I've heard it enough...

The Killer lights a match, staring at it.

_Soul boy, down and alone_  
_And your soul is broken again  
But you can't stop moving  
No you won't stop moving along_

Then tosses it.

My life is engulfed in flames.


	11. SLOWLY

**A/N: This chapter gets a little intense. If your one of those humans with a weak stomach, I suggest clicking the X in the corner, as I always suggest. Ask your doctor before reading. Side effects may include crying, weeping, reviewing(a good thing), cussing out the author, and maybe even thoughts of suicide. If you experience these effects, I really don't care.**

**Okay, okay. Serious now. A lot of people suggested this death in the beginning, and since I'm far too lazy to type them all out, feel free to shout out in the reviews: "OMG I SUGGESTED THIS IS HOW THIS PERSON DIED!##%*" **

**For the death suggestions of Rachel, there were a lot, either in the reviews or in private messages. I have Pm'd some of you if yours was picked, and will credit you in that chapter. If you still have ideas, feel free to tell. You may get picked as well.**

Sometimes, I weep softly, because I lost the one thing that was inside of me, apart of me. Beth.

This isn't one of those times.

Mostly, because I couldn't stand knowing that, along with myself, my child would die with me.

My mother is confused on why I'm so depressed, but doesn't ask.

I don't want to die.

I really don't. I'm beautiful, young, vibrant, and no longer pregnant. I could survive, and have a happy life.

_Riiiiiing. _Who would be calling at four in the morning?

I open my phone. "Hello?"

"Quinn, can we talk?"

"What do you want, Puck?"

"Just look outside your window."

I sit up from my bed, and smooth down my untamed hair before looking out my bedroom window. Puck is there, hands in his jean pockets, squinting up at me. "Come down?" he asks. I sigh, put on my sunglasses, and climb down the stairs into the front lawn. I cross my arms, and look up at Puck.

"Did I wake you?" he asks.

"No, already up."

"Doing what?"

I sigh. "Thinking."

"About?"

"What do you think?" I ask, a tone of bitterness. "All of our friends that have been dying. Me dying."

He reaches out, and strokes my face. I flinch, but don't pull away. The warmth is surprisingly comforting, and it's the only bit of soothing I've had since Beth,

"You're not dead yet," he says.

"Emphasis on the 'yet', Noah."

His eyes gaze down, smirking. "I'll let you get away with calling me that, just this once."

I smile, without showing my teeth. "Is this why you came? To remind me that I might die?"

"No, to remind you that we don't have to die."

"We?"

"Yes, we." His eyes are as endless corridors, and there's a light at the end. "Quinn, want to run away with me?"

At any other moment in time, I might have scoffed at the cheesiness, then maybe walked away. Now, it's the most romantic thing.

And a chance at life.

* * *

I hurriedly pack a large backpack, and kiss my sleeping mother's forehead, before we go to the Ohio Train Station.

The ticket holder is unphased by the fact that two teenagers are hopping a train at 5 in the morning to Las Vegas, Nevada.

"Lemme guess, she's pregnant," he begins, pointing a fat dirty finger at me. "And her parents are pissed, so you're running away together to get married."

His guess is so funny, that I start laughing hysterically. He raises a greasy eyebrow at me. "Good guess, but you're about a year off."

"Yeah, this time, we're just trying to stay alive," Puck says. The man frowns, and shoves the tickets in our hands.

"Good luck," he gruffs.

Maybe if I hadn't been so absorbed in the fact that this might just work, I would've noticed another teenager boarding as well.

"Why are we going to Las Vegas, anyways?" I ask Puck once we get in our seats. Everyone else is either asleep or too absorbed in a game to notice our conversation.

"I figured that no one would be able to find us. Lima, there's not many people. Las Vegas is packed to the brim, and this Killer would be hard pressed to find us there."

"Smart plan, but wouldn't we run out of money eventually? I mean, my college fund and the few hundreds of savings I've had over the years will only last us so long."

"I have an uncle in LV, he'll help us out." The train blows its whistle, and it jolts to a start.

"So how long have you had this all planned?"

He smiles, and looks into his lap. "Uhm, would you be mad that I've had this plan ever since you were pregnant?"

I gape. "What? You expected me to run away while I was still in school?"

"Technically, you still are. But I was thinking more of: after the baby, I would take you to Las Vegas, marry you, then we can go to the university there, and maybe start a life?"

"You wanted to marry me?" I whisper.

"Uh, yeah." He gets this goofy smile on his face. "I know you don't want to, but-"

I lean up, and kiss him on his cheek. "Maybe not marriage, but I'd be happy to start a life with you. We could go to a highschool there until we graduate, then we can talk."

"Sounds like a plan."

"Oh, how sweet," a voice says. We look over, and there's someone reading a newspaper. He lowers it, and his masked face is in full view. "Looks like it all worked out for you."

I clutch Puck's arm, feeling protected. "You're him."

"Is that a statement, or a question?" The Killer asks.

"A statement, I guess," I say.

The Killer folds his newspaper, and smiles. Those teeth are so bright and straight. Reminds me of a dog's teeth, before it eats.

"You can't touch her," Puck says, fists tight.

"I'm so afraid," he says. "In fact, I'm so scared, that I'm going to wait until we're off this train to kill you. I'll let you get into Las Vegas, and leave you alone."

"Really?" Puck asks.

"Yes. But I won't leave you alone forever."

The Killer stands up, and exits to the next car. Leaving us bewildered, and tenser than before.  
Puck makes a move to follow him, but I stop him.

"Puck, if you try to go after him, you'll die. Can we just try to wring out all of the living we have left?" I ask.

Puck sits back down. "He's toying with us now," he says, teeth gritting together.

"I know," I say solemnly. "But I'm not ready to die yet."

We exit the train at the LV station, shaking and not seeing our killer. I lean into Puck, and he wraps his arm around me. In the early morning, the city is still and quiet, even with the flashing lights. It's still dark, but in the distance you see a hint of sun. It's chilly, and I forgot that Nevada weather is strange, even in late April. I forgot to pack a jacket, so I just shiver.

We enter a small 24 hour coffee shop, that only has one old waitress on duty. She smiles at us, and pours us two coffees. I sip mine eagerly. Neither of us speaks.

None of us notices the muffled scream from the backroom, and the quiet slam. We're both absorbed in our thoughts. Puck starts to speak.

"Hey, Quinn. You want to m-"

A crash rings out through the coffee shop. We look around frantically, searching for what the source was.

"What the-" Puck says, before we realize that the Killer is right behind him, and tying a rope around Puck to the chair. Before Puck can react, he's already tied it so tightly that Puck can't move. He struggles, but it's no use. I watch in horror.

"Told you I'd be back," he says.

I jump at him, trying to attack. He easily grabs me, and keeps my wrists in a lock with his hands.

"Delivery," he whispers, and with his free hand, gives me my card.

_**SLOWLY.**_

"No!" Puck shouts. "I won't let you."

The Killer shoves me down, and closes the blinds to the coffee shop. "Thought you could run away. How cute."

He pulls out a small container of pills. "These," he says, tapping out a few pills. "are pills called barbiturates. They are very effective in killing, and are often used in suicide. Takes a while, though. About fifteen minutes." He pins me to the ground, cold breath in my face. He pours about half the bottle down my throat. I choke, trying to cough them out. He forces my jaw closed, shushing me. I painfully swallow them all, tears dripping down my cheek. "But to torture Puck here, I'm going to make you suffer while you die."

He takes out his knife.

"FUCK YOU!" Puck shouts, still struggling. He manages to knock his chair over, along with him. Lying on his side, he's pretty much useless.

Forced to watch me die.

The Killer smirks at Puck, and looks down at me. "First, let's cut off some of your pretty hair. Then maybe he won't love you as much, sweetheart."

Lock by lock, long strips of my hair fall to the tiles below me. Then, he pulls out a pair of salon scissors.

"All of your hair," he says. Then trims off my eyelashes. I'm still crying, breathing heavily.

Please, God. Help me. God...

Puck watches in agony, breathing heavily.

"Just to amp up the suffering, let's take off those clothes." He pulls my shirt over my head. I try to resist, but the effects of the pills are already taking place. I feel myself getting weak, and can barely move. But I can still feel the pain. He takes off all of my clothes, and I'm still crying. Puck is still try to get out, and failing.

"Now, now. I'm not going to rape her," he says, laughing softly. "I'm not that kind of killer. Besides, I find her, extremely unattractive." He laughs a little louder. "But you are _very_ beautiful. What a shame."

"Get off of her!" Puck shouts.

The Killer ignores her, and raises his arm, and plunges the knife into my leg. I scream, a chortled sound. The pills are making my tongue numb, and I can barely even see. It's all blurry. The screams collapse into more tears, and I can barely even stand the pain.

"Puck," I manage to say, gasping. "Puck, I-"

He buries the knife into my other leg. I bite my tongue down, trying not to scream even more.

Puck manages to break lose of the ropes, and jumps at The Killer. He acts fast, and pulls a gun out of a holster in his jacket. He aims, and fires.

Puck goes down, gasping in pain.

"Puck!" I shout. He's clutching his lower stomach. He aims the gun at me, and shoots me in the arm.

So...much..pain.

My vision is getting even dizzier.

"Quinn, I love you. So much..." he whispers.  
Tears keep flooding my cheeks. "I love you too."

"Marry me?" he asks.

"Of course," I sob.

Everything is fading fast.

"It's been thirteen minutes," the Killer says. "Any time."

So much pain.

"_Shoot me with your rubber bullets  
Your finger's on the trigger, pull it  
I know you want this suffering to end  
So it is forgivable my friend." _I'm singing. I manage to. I'm half singing it to my murderer, and half to Puck. I hear Puck sobbing. 

_"It's all to convince me that I'll be better off  
So you go on and I'll be happier,  
You go on and I'll be happier  
You go on, yeah, you go on  
You'll be gone and I'll be happier." _Puck, please live. I'll be happy in heaven, I swear.

"Quinn, I love you so much. I love you even more than when you were carrying my child. Please don't leave me."_  
"You won't convince me, that I'll be better off  
So you go on and I'll be happier, I'll be happier  
You go on, you go  
You'll be gone, and I'll be gone..."_

"You won't be gone. I'll always remember you. I love you." I can barely hear him know.

I'm dying.

"Goodbye," he whispers.

"Fifteen minutes," The Killer says.

"_You go on, and I'll be happier..."_

"Quinn..." Puck whispers.

_Puck._

_Beth._

_Everyone._

_I'll be okay._

_At least I didn't die alone._

Darkness envelopes me, and I take my last breath.

_It's so bright...__  
_


	12. WILLING

"Shoot me..." I whisper, clutching my stomach and staring at the love of my life.

Fuck.

I don't care anymore.

I really don't.

"I have to give you your card first," he says, and presents it to me, like it's a fucking Christmas present.

_**WILLING.**_

The Killer sighs, and turns me onto my back. Despite the badassery I have gained throughout my years, I'm as helpless as a baby whenever I'm met with a bullet. I can't even struggle, he overpowers me.

He wraps a bandage over the wound.

"What the hell?" I ask.

"If you bleed to death, then you wouldn't be dying willingly. I'd rather you beg for it," he says.

"I'm not too proud to beg. I'll do it," I say. "Kill me."

"Not good enough. On your knees, soldier," he says.

I slowly try to move, and the stabbing pain screams throughout. Shaking, I'm on my knees, labored breath.

His laughter rings through my ears.

I'm crying like a wuss.

Quinn's eyes are open. She died with her eyes open. They glimmer with drying tears.

Just looking at her makes my chest swell up and I can no longer breath.

"Shoot me, dammit!" I yell.

The Killer shakes his head, and reloads his revolver.

And instead of blasting my brains out, he just shoots Quinn again.

Shooting a corpse.

"Why are you doing this?" I ask.

"That's not for you to find out," the Killer whispers, and his eyes shift downwards. "Kiss her."

"What?"

"Kiss her. Kiss the dead girl," he says, gesturing towards Quinn with his gun.

I crawl on my knees over to her, and gently envelope my lips on her cold, lifeless ones. I clutch her hand in one of my own. I slowly pull away, shutting my eyes.

"Kill me next to her. I want to see her again," I whisper.

"You may not. Maybe she went to the place you call Heaven. And you might be going straight to hell, Noah," the killer says.

"Don't you think I know that?" I snap. "Shoot me now, or I'll do it myself."

The Killer laughs. "You're bluffing. If you kill yourself, I don't think you'll go anywhere."

I make a lunge for the gun, and the killer quickly jumps back.  
"Hey, stop that. Killing yourself isn't in the cards," he says, shaking his finger at me.

"Please tell me that dying is," I say. "I can't stand it. Whenever I try to get close to her, or anything I love, The Jewish God just rips it right out of me." My eyes meet with the killer's. His eyes are seas of brown, searching for something. What, though? "Hey, Killer dude. Can you do something for me before popping off my soul?"

"Depends on the 'something'. I can be nice, in some ways. Kind of," he says, rubbing his chin.

I shakily fumble around in my right pocket, grasping my hands on a piece of paper in there, folded into neat squares.

"Me and Quinn wrote this a little bit ago, on the train. Deliver it to Beth, if you can. In an envelope or something. Write on there that it's for Beth's eyes only, and she has to wait until she's 16 to read it. Uh...do you know where she is?" I ask.

He takes the paper. "Before I went after you guys, I did some research on you. So, yes. I do." he sighs. "I shall do what you ask, as a parting favor," he says, sympathetic.

"Well, you aren't so bad. As long as you shoot me, right now," I say.

"Very well."

He raises the gun, and the cold barrel is pressed against my forehead.

"_I've seen your frown  
And it's like looking down the barrel of a gun  
And it goes off  
And out come all these words  
Oh there's a very pleasant side to you  
A side I much prefer..." _The voice..so familiar.

I'll be happier Quinn, I swear.

With you.

_**Bang.**_

_Dear Beth,_

_We have no idea if you will ever get this. If you do, we hope it's when you are sixteen, and looking at the responsibilities of your life. We're your parents, never forget that. _

_Don't ever think you are worthless, or a mistake. The moment you were born was one of the happiest days. We couldn't be happier that you've found a loving mother. Beth, know your roots. You'll be as beautiful and capable as your mother, and strong and stubborn as your father. It's a good thing, we swear. _

_You're in highschool now, we hope. Don't make the same decisions we did. _

_You should know that if you get this, we're probably dead. If anyone has told you that it was because of a reason other than that we were brutally murdered, it's a lie. _

_Don't let any guy get in your pants until you're 40._

_You've never met us, or seen us. You can't picture our faces, never shared a memory. Look in the mirror, though, and you'll see some parts of us. You have your father's eyes, we know that._

_We wish we could have met you as a young, strongwilled adult._

_We love you. Please know that._

_Love,_

_Your Parents. _


	13. Victims

**A/N: Screw redoing all of my chapters. I'm lazy and I have better things going on. **

**Place this chapter sometime after Finn's death.**

"William!" Sue Sylvester pounded at his apartment door, furious. Mr. Schuester stirred from his couch, rubbing his temples and trying to ignore the pounding headache going on. He opened his door, seeing the middle aged woman standing there, a frown plastered on her face. "You're a disgrace," she spat, and shoved the current newspaper at his chest. Will, with a sigh, opened the fold, seeing the faces of Mike, Sam, Mercedes, and Finn's faces plastered on the front page. Will scanned the article, filled with information he already knew.

His gaze slowly met Sue's again, expression even softer than before. "I know."

"Why aren't you doing anything?" Sue asked, throwing the newspaper aside. "These are your kids. Sure, I always said how much I wanted them dead, but that doesn't mean you have to lose your balls when it happens! These kids need you, Will, and you're standing in the sidelines. I'm watching them, and trying to protect them, but it's not working. What the hell are you doing? Do you WANT to see those kids die; Manhands, Porcelain, Fake Boobs, even Brittany? You're a monster-"

"SHUT UP," William shouted, slamming his hand against the doorframe. "Just shut up, Sue," he whispered, sinking to the floor, holding his head in calloused hands, staring at the soft blue carpet underneath him. "The Killer has Emma."

"Bambi? You're letting innocent children die, for one person?"

"You wouldn't understand," he said, meeting Sue's eyes again. "Don't talk to me about sacrifice when you have no idea what it means."

Sue made her way into the apartment, shutting the door behind her. "Choices, William. There are many in life. You can choose your career path, your stupid hairstyle, and who you love." She knelt down next to Will's shaking body. "You can only choose one, and sometimes, the worst choice to you is the right one."

"I can't, Sue," he stammered. "I just can't let her die."

Sue sighed. "Will, you're making a very bad choice. I'm sorry to have to leave you in this sorry, pathetic heap of a life. But I need to save some kids."

Sue Sylvester walked back out the door, closing it softly behind her. She stared back at the carpet, and took a deep breath, ready to fight.

"Admirable, trying to get him to join you in the battle," a voice said, leaning against the hallway wall, face hidden behind a hood. "But really, he was right. You don't understand."

"It's you!" Sue gritted her teeth, and stormed over to the lanky dark body, ready to strike. "Prepare to die!"

"Before you kill me, you might want to see this," the killer said, holding up a cell phone. Sue paused, squinting at the screen. A picture was opened, and a familiar face, scared, was staring back at Sue in the picture.

Jean.

"My sister," she breathed. "You have my sister."

"And I'll kill her if you touch me. All I have to do is press this button," the killer explained, tapping a red button attached to his expensive watch, "and the IV that is currently hooked up to your sister will inject the poison into her veins. She'll be as good as dead."

Sue roared, putting up a fist. The Killer simply smiled, holding up his watch. Sue took a step back, hanging her head in shame. "Alright," she said. "What do you want?"

"Stay with Schuester. Both of you get the hell out of business, along with the police officers I've also blackmailed. It's that easy. When I'm done, my captives will be released."

"Don't hurt her," Sue whispered.

"As long as you stay away from me," The Killer said, chuckling. "Now, go back to that apartment, and stay there."

Sue nodded mutely, and watched as her sister's kidnapper retreated out of the building. She noticed in agony that he had also ripped out the apartment security cameras, so no one knew of that meeting.

She was alone.

She turned back to the door of William Shuester's apartment, and sighed.

Mr. Schuester looked up in surprise when Sue came back in, setting herself down on the couch. "I understand," she whispered.

**a/n2: this was written mostly to give understanding on to why the two haven't been trying to help the kids, and to clarify to the people who still believed they were the killers. **


	14. SELF

**A/N: Long author's note at end.**

I'm next. I just know it.

When word came that the bodies of Noah Puckerman and Quinn Fabray were found in a Las Vegas coffee shop, I just knew.

The bed feels much too soft underneath me. Pink covers disgust me now.

Oh, god. I can't. I can't even-

I bring my hands up to my eyes to rub away the tears. Well, in the time of sadness, sing Barbra Streisand. I take the CD delicately in my hands, put it in the CD player, and sing through broken tears, curled up in the fetal position.

_You may be someone else's sweetheart  
Fighting someone else's war  
And if you suffer for the millions  
Then it's what you're fighting for _

Tears are still coming, dripping down my cheeks. I lock my doors while singing, watching my sad face in the mirror. I don't bother picking up my hairbrush whilst singing. I'm not even singing loudly. It's more of a whisper...

_Someone believe in only light of day  
Someone strong enough to show the way  
Someone everyone believes in  
Someone who will stand by you _

Finn is gone. Sometimes, in my most darkest moments, she would lie in my bed and wish Finn would go away forever just so I wouldn't have to see his face.

I regret that every minute of my life.

_And I will be your heart and mind-_

Clap.

Clap.

Clap.

"Very good, Rachel," The Killer says, appearing in the window. "Although I do hate Barbra Streisand. I do not know what your club's fascination with her is."

"Club?" I echo. "There's only Kurt and me. That's more like a duo, prepared to survive." I desperately wipe off the tears. "I don't want to be murdered."

He hops off of the window, landing with a swift movement, to walk towards my side. He places a finger under my chin, lifting it up and forcing me to be face to face with him. His breath smells like fresh mint and tobacco, but I have a feeling he hasn't been smoking for very long, since his teeth are pristine.

Maybe I could change him.

Maybe if I show him how to love...

Leaning in, I pucker my lips, and-

"WHOA!" The Killer jumps back three feet, and I catch myself before falling off of my vanity chair. "Were you trying to, change my heart?" He has an absolutely horrified look plastered on his face, that quickly breaks into laughter. "That's hilarious!"

"I..." I lower my head, ashamed that I tried to kiss the man that killed my former one. What the heck was I thinking?

"Rachel, honey," The Killer splutters, coming back to me. "I appreciate the offer of, what did you think, I would change my evil ways and marry you, then everything would be roses and fucking ponies? First of all, that's sick. I killed your friends, and yet you're still turned on? I guess I understand, you were desperate for life. But, second, I don't exactly...play for your team. Catch my drift? Though you are a very pretty girl."

He's right. I'm desperate to live. "Please don't kill me. I'm still young, and I have a future. I don't want to be murdered." Sniffling, I burst into tears again. "Please. Oh, god. I don't want to die. I don't want to be murdered. I don't want to be murdered."

"Don't be so pathetic," The Killer sneers, and tosses me the card.

Queen of Hearts.

**SELF.**

"I won't kill myself," I sniff, crossing my arms in defiance.

"I know," The Killer whispers, holding out his hand. "But maybe if I show you some things, you will."

"I'll never go with you."

"You either go with me, or I fucking murder you, right here right now," he growls. Then he softens, arms relaxed again. "I'm sorry. That was very UN-gentlemanly of me."

Shaking, I take his hand, feeling the harder gloved leather press against mine. "I think I know who you are," I say as he leads me out the door. I wish my dads were home. His hoodie is large, and swallows him up.

"Really? Interesting. Do tell me what lead you to your conclusion."

"Well...you're gay, as you just said. A-and...you have a strange liking to Kurt, seeing as you picked him as the messenger person, and he'll be the last one alive." He unlocks his car, and shoves me into the passenger seat. I stare up at the cloudy day. "You're Karofsky, aren't you?"

The Killer laughs again. "Good guess, but not strong enough evidence, darling. There are a lot of gay guys in Ohio, and with a liking for Kurt. Probably because he's flamboyant."

"Oh," I mutter, feeling stupid. And also because The Killer is skinny and tall, and Karofsky has a muscular build. "Can you at least tell me why you're killing people?"

"I'm mentally unstable, doll," The Killer explains, revving up the car and speeding down the streets. I watch the grey buildings fly by, my pathetic life ticking away minute by minute. The classic rock station plays on the stereo, faint and tinny. I bring my knees up to my chest, cradling myself. "Isn't that enough of a reason to kill?"

"No. Maybe. Yes. I don't know." I sigh. He pulls up to a sidewalk, next to a deteriorating apartment building, with a cracked sign advertising 'CHEAP APARTMENTS AVAILBLE! CALL NOW!' "Why are we here?"

"To show you how much no one cares about you and your friends," The Killer says, and leads me out of the car and around the back of the building. I step over decaying weeds and broken cobble steps, trying not to ruin my new argyle knee socks. The Killer grabs my hand again, pulling me on top of a flower box without flowers, to peek into a window.

I cup my hands around my face, squinting to see in the dark apartment. I see Mr. Schue and Sue, conversing quietly while watching the television.

"See how they just live their lives, not even concerned?" The Killer asks.

"But, you can't tell that just from them sitting. They could be talking about the murders!"

"Look in the trashcan," The Killer points out. I twist my head, trying to see in the archway that led to the kitchen. In the trashcan, I see a rolled up newspaper, with the news of Quinn and Pucks death scribbled out.

I step off the box, stumbling back, crying again. "They hate us."

"They sure do. The though of you sends them into rage."

I look up, and through the blurry tears, I meet The Killer's brown eyes.

"Your voice. I know it. Of course. Of fucking course." Then I cry even harder. "I can't even tell anyone. I can't even tell Kurt."

The Killer wraps his arms around me, shushing my cries and saying what a clever girl I am. He picks me up, bridal style, and lets cry into his shirt.

He sets me in the car, and drives south. He whistles under his breath, occasionally glancing over at me. "Why didn't anyone guess?" he asks, more to himself than to me. "Kurt didn't even guess, and I thought he was smart. You're all idiots." His grip tightens on the wheel. "You all deserve this." I watch as the MPH red arrow rises past 80 miles, then past 90. The car speeds to dangerous levels, and I just hold tighter on the seatbelt, and wait for my death.

"What the fuck is wrong with everyone?" The Killer continues. "Nobody ever appreciates life, especially you glee kids. You all whine and complain about how _horrible _your life is. What bullshit. You don't know what horrible is. Horrible is spending every summer in a mental institution. Horrible is having your own parents hate you. Horrible is killing your own fucking parents." He chuckles, cold and heartless. "I'm a horrible person. Why didn't anyone ever see that? They always thought I was so fucking polite and perfect, when I was dying inside." He's shouting now. "Nobody realizes how broken everyone else is, only caring about themselves. I'm doing you all a favor. A fucking favor. Making you realize."

He swerves the car to the side of the road, and storms out, opening the door. "Your death site, milady," he says through gritted teeth.

I step out, seeing a vast glittering river laid in front of me. "You're going to drown me?"

"No, you're drowning yourself." The Killer grabs me from behind, locking my wrists together, pushing me to the edge of the bridge looking down at the river. The water laps out on the rocks, waiting for my body. He places something smooth and hard in my left hand, and forces my hand up in my line of vision.

It's a gold star.

Not a mere sticker, but a cold metal gold star.

I watch as he brings my hand to my throat, and my fingers guide the star across it. He pulls my hand away, and the star is sticky with blood.

I splutter, tripping away from him.

"Goodbye, Rachel, you clever girl," he shouts.

I clutch at my throat, trying to get a hold of myself, when I stumble over the edge, plunging to the deadly waters below.

Yes, goodbye.

Goodbye world.

I'm ready for you.

**Black.**

**A/N: Special thanks to:**

**Melting Crayons**

**Genevia **

**the gleek of -what if **

**for the Rachel death suggestions. They're awesome! Applause! **

**I literally changed Rachel's card from GAME to SELF in the last few seconds. Literally. And picking Rachel's song in the beginning was really hard. Her taste in music is VASTLY different than mine. I hadn't even heard of Barbra Streisand until 2 hours ago. So I blindly picked a song from her that seemed vaguely familiar, listened to it, hated it, got the lyrics, and bam. There we go. **

**Kurt is the next chapter, then the epilogue. Review to say your final guesses on who it is, though you should know by now. **

**So, thanks for reading this story, hopefully you'll read the last two chapters as well. Review, please. It makes my day. Even if you hate it, and you think it's terrible. It is kinda terrible. But, oh well. Okay, I'll stop talking now. Go alert/review/flame/love/make cookies!**


	15. GAME

**A/N: Oh god. **

**Epilogue and interview with the author after this. Ask me questions. **

**Anything NOT explained here will be answered in the epilogue.**

**Well, enjoy.**

**Hope it lives up to expectations. **

I am alone.

It's an empty void, sucking in all of the joyous thoughts I once claimed.

My hand tries to grasp for another, but it only feels empty air.

There is only me, and a killer.

I am-

"Kurt, buddy?" Burt asks, holding a cardboard box in his arms, appearing in my doorway. "We're moving. With all of the news of the deaths of your buddies in glee club, we've decided that it'll be safer somewhere else. Maybe California. Or Texas. Would you like that?"

I gulp, swallowing back waves of tears. "Yeah, of course, dad. That's a great idea, maybe I could tan." Burt smiles, nodding. "Okay. Can you go up to the cellar and gather all of your old clothes? We could donate them to Goodwill."

"I doubt Goodwill will appreciate my designer brand infant clothing, but I'll obey." I take off my Marc Jacobs jacket, not wanting it to get dusty in the cellar.

"Good boy. I'm going to get some more cleaning supplies from the store down the street, and then pick up some pizza, then go to the post office to send some resumes. Carol's buying more appliances. You gonna be okay by yourself?"

"Of course, dad." I'll be dead by the time he gets back, but he doesn't have to know. Thinking about that, I run up and give him one last hug, the cardboard box in-between us. He's used to my impromptu hugs, so it's nothing out of the ordinary. "Goodbye."

He adjusts the cap on his head, and exits the room.

I am alone.

_Well, better get to that cellar, _I think, and trudge my way into the hallway. I still have to stand on my toes to reach the string to pull down the stairs to the cellar, and when I do, dust explodes out. I cough, wiping it off my face and hair. I grumble under my breath, making my way into the darkness. Closing the stairs behind me, the room floods with black. I blindly stumble around for a light switch, finding the cord and tugging it. A faint dim light shines from the one bulb, illuminating treasures from my youth.

I open a box at random, marked PHOTOS. In it there's a leather album, with worn edges and dusty pages. Blowing off any excess dirt, I open the first page.

They're all of my mom.

Her as a little girl, eating birthday cake. Her in a Sunday dress, pouting at the camera. Prom night with a man I can't recognize. A picnic, with her in an Ohio State sweatshirt. There's a different man with his arm wrapped around her, and I recognize him as my dad. Burt. Tears drop on the page.

I'll be seeing her soon.

Turning a different page, I see her holding a tiny bundle of blankets. I'm in it, with a scrunched up face and angry expression. My mom has tangled brown hair, bags under her eyes, and the hospital gown loose on her, but she's smiling. The rest of the photos have me in them, either being held by her, or holding her hand. In the last picture, there's her back in the hospital, and me in a suit. I'm seven, with neatly combed hair and missing front teeth. From the looks of my eyes, I've been recently crying. I'm holding Mom's hand, and her skin is handing off of her bones.

She was dying then.

I drop the photo book back in the box, shoving it away.

I continue deeper into the cellar, still half blind because of the low lighting.

I trip over a box-ish thing, landing in a pile of old clothes. "Ow..." I mumble, inspecting my knee for any wounds. I peer at what tripped me, and discover an old record player. Carved in the side is MPH, my mother's initials. Next to it is a box of old records. Flipping through it, I pull out a Judy Garland album. I set it in, placing the needle gently on the record.

"_Forget your troubles c'mon get happy,  
you better chase all your cares away.  
Shout hallelujah c'mon get happy  
__get ready for the judgment day..._" Judy's tinny voice sings out.

I know this song, so I timidly sing along, 

"_the sun is shinin' c'mon get happy,  
the lord is waitin' to take your hand.  
shout hallelujah c'mon get happy,  
we're going to the promise land..."_  
I refuse to cry. I've already cried lakes over this.

I am not afraid.

"_We're heading across the river to  
wash your sins away in the tide.  
it's all so peaceful on the other side_."

I inhale deeply, shaking. This is my fate.

To die.

I'm ready to leave, when a voice rings out.

"_**Forget your troubles c'mon get happy,  
you better chase all your cares away.  
shout hallelujah c'mon get happy,  
get ready for the judgement day."**_

I hurriedly stop the needle, and the music halts abruptly.

"The Killer," I whisper, turning around.

There he is, gloved hands and black mask.

I tremble in fear as The Killer slowly approaches me, raising a gloved hand. I take a deep breath, closing my eyes, and hoping it's over quickly.

Then I feel the glove on the side of my head, and pulling my face towards his.

Lips touch lips, and I flush with heat as we kiss.

The Killer holds me, and I grab him closer to me, our bodies meeting in a tangled embrace.

I open my eyes, and gently tug the hood off of The Killer's head, and untie the knot of the mask.

"Don't," The Killer murmurs against my lips.

I ignore him, and the mask falls to our feet.

"Blaine,"I whisper, and lean my forehead against Blaine's, breaking our kiss. Blaine shudders, holding my hand against his chest. I breathe heavily, refusing to meet his eyes, but feeling the steady beat of his heart underneath my hand. "How could I not have known?" I ask.

"Because you didn't want to believe it," he says. "You didn't want to believe such a kind gentleman like me could be capable of murder."

"But, it doesn't make sense," I protest, pushing away from Blaine. "The Killer was tall! Slim! I didn't recognize your voice on the phone, or with Mercedes."

"When you saw the killer that day with Mercedes, that wasn't me. He's an old friend of mine who owes me a favor, so he was hired to tell you about your task as a messenger, and to kill her. He's a heavy smoker and has a much lower register than me, so I figured you wouldn't even think it was me. For the phone part, I used a voice modulator and put it up to the speaker."

This can't be true. No. It can't. He's lying."When The Killer called, it said unknown number!"

"Star sixty four, come on. I paid Jacob Ben Israel to bug the choir room; he had no idea what I was doing. He just thought I was doing it to spy on the competition."

I shut my eyes, inhaling deeply. "B-b-but, you didn't seem to be weird at Dalton..."

Blaine tightens his hands, curling them into fists. "Weird? How the fuck would you know? You've been gone, Kurt. No one fucking knows how I fucking feel!" Blaine twitches, and softens. "Sorry. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to snap."

I inhale sharply. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

Blaine chuckles maniacally, cradling his head in his hands. He tilts his head up, eyes dark and lost. "What's wrong with me? What's wrong with _me? _What the hell is wrong with society? If someone's different, it's wrong, so they diagnose them with fancy terms to make it okay. I don't care what they call it,bi-polar, manic depression, sociopath, whatever. It all means I'm crazy, babe. But I'm crazy for you." He laughs again, hard and forced. "I really do love you, Kurt."

I shiver, reaching out a hand, and gingerly tracing a finger along his jawline. "Please, tell me what happened to you."

He places a hand over mine, and it rests on his cheek. He bites his lip. "I have bi polar disorder. So, at times, I'm the calm gentleman who is head over heels about you. Then I'm psycho, who wants to kill your friends."

"I don't think being bi-polar makes you insane."

"Yeah, but put in that, and add dysfunctional household, shitty life, and my father saying that he would rather me be dead, and...yeah."

I take a deep breath, staring up at his brown eyes. "I don't think I understand."

"What's not to understand? I'm evil. I'm crazy. I have a thirst for killing those who do not understand. I needed ones that would not be missed, ones that wouldn't be looked into. All of you glee kids, I never got you. Prancing around like you're the best fucking thing on the planet, then burst into tears when you stub a toe. The worst thing that could possibly happen in your life is that you're in love with three different people. The glee kids have never had their mom beaten half to death by their dad, or been told to 'get the fuck out' several times a week, forcing them to sleep in cars or park benches."

"Y-y-you should have told me. I had no idea..."

"Of course you didn't. My father threatened to kill you if I ran away to your house. He said I was only influencing my sexuality more."

"Oh." My hands are shaking still, and I stick them in my back pockets, looking up at him with clear eyes.

"Yes. I planned this out. Minute by fucking minute, darling."

"Blaine...this isn't you. This isn't like you!" I squeeze his hand, searching his expressions with desperation.

He shrugs. "Don't you want your card?"

"My..." he whips out the small rectangle containing my fate, practically shoving it in my face.

_**GAME. **_

My shoulders slump. "Can...can you tell my dad how sorry I am? After I'm dead."

"Who says I'll be alive to tell him?" Blaine asks, adjusting his collar.

"What?"

"Come on, I'll take you to your death."

He grabs my hand, starting to practically shove me out the house.

"Wait!" I shout, and freeze. I pick up the old photo album, pull out the one of my healthy mother and me, and insert it in my pocket. "There."

Blaine smiles, and we continue into his car. It smells like aerosol and blood, which is a familiar scent to me now. The leather seats are clean, though, and I'm grateful for it. The skies are unfittingly bright and sunny, birds chirping with joy.

"Just fucking perfect," I mutter, as Blaine revs engine and speeds off north.

"Check my backpack, okay?" he asks, and I fumble around the backseat, and pull out his bag. Zipping it open, papers stick out, and I pull one out at random.

It has 'NOAH PUCKERMAN' written on the top. Underneath are bullet points listing pretty much everything about him, including fighting techniques and weight. Another list includes his relationships with everyone in the glee club, and another list that says 'BLACKMAIL USES'. Pulling out more papers, it's the same thing with everyone. Finn Hudson 180lbs, sloppy fighting. Tina Cohen Chang 119lbs, runner and frail.

"This..." My mouth runs dry. "This is genius. This is cruel, but..."

"It's impressive, right?" He smiles again to himself. "Took fucking forever to gather it."

I read through it, seeing exactly the low down on everyone, things I bet they didn't even know themselves. "Where's mine?" I ask.

"I didn't need it. I already know you like the back of my hand."

I squirm uncomfortably. "Where are you taking me?"

"Here." Just on cue, we reach a large wheat field, sunlight reflecting off of the tall stalks perfectly, like in some sick fairytale. There's already a card table set up in the middle, with a cherry plaid cloth spread out over it, crystal tea pot with steam blowing out, too. The decoration? A daffodil in a clear jar perfectly in the middle.

"Daffodil..." I whisper, unbuckling myself and getting out of the car.

"Your favorite flower," Blaine notes, pulling a shiny new gun out of his jacket.

I squeal, and duck behind the car.

He chuckles, this time a real hearty one, and puts away the gun. "Chill, Kurt. I'm not shooting you yet, that wouldn't be a very fun game."

"Yet..."

"Relax. I brought chocolate chip cookies, your favorite." He reaches in the bottom of the backpack and gets a plastic container, brimmed to the top with treats.

"You really went all out for my death," I murmured, sitting down in the lawn chairs he has places on the opposite sides of the table.

"Don't tell the others, but you're my favorite." He sits down as well, pouring the hot tea into china cups, which he also got from the car. He hands me a cup, and I blow on it gently, taking a sip.

That's when I burst into tears.

"Kurt? What's wrong, dear? I thought you were fine with dying," Blaine asks.

Tears fall into my cup, spoiling it. "This..." I choke on the sadness. "this is what I wanted my wedding reception to be like. Tea, and flowers, and the person I loved."

"I know."

"How? How the hell did you know?" I ask loudly through my cries. He pats my hand.

"That's no mystery. You've often told me of your wedding plans, love."

"Oh." The sobs die down, and when I can finally see through the blur of tears, he places a simple yet elegant ring on the table.

"Marry me?" he asks, completely serious. "I know we can't actually get married, with the laws and time against us, but I _do _want to promise myself to you. I want to be engaged, something I thought I'd never be allowed."

"You're going to kill me, and yet you want my hand in marriage," I guffaw. "What a winner I picked."

"Don't mock me, Kurt. I'm serious." He gets down on one knee, actually kneels next to me. "Kurt Hummel, I love you with all of my heart, and I'm proving it now. Before your untimely death, will you be engaged to me? Can I call you mine?"

There are so many reasons to say no.

He killed my friends.

He's about to kill me.

But then again?

Why not.

"Why fucking not?" He grins, and slides the ring on my finger. I admire it in the sunlight. "It's beautiful."

"Like you." Tears glint in his eyes, too, and he produces the gun. I suck in my breath, and brace myself for the shot.

He sets the gun on the table, kisses me gently, and whispers, "Russian Roulette."

"Of course." I blink, realizing his plan. He's going to have me kill myself. Then he wouldn't kill the love of his life, he'd just let me.

"Do you agree to the game?" he asks, sitting back in his chair and biting into a cookie.

"I do." I laugh then, a hollow one with no humor. "Get it, 'I do'? Like at a wedding?"

He nods, and loads the gun with one bullet. "Whoever gets shot first is dead, obviously. So let's play."

"You could die."

"I could. I would rather it be that."

"Why play these games?"

He doesn't answer, just gazes into my eyes one last time, and snatches the gun, clicking the safety off. Before he does anything, he presses a tiny red button on his watch. I wonder briefly what it does.

"I love you," he says, then pulls the trigger.

I squeeze my eyes, not wanting to see the horror.

No noise.

Just empty air.

"Fuck," he growls.

"My turn," I say. Why am I doing this? Because there's no hope.

There's never any hope in real life.

The gun feels warm in my hands, cold to touch my forehead. I inhale deeply.

Goodbye Dad.

Goodbye Blaine.

Goodbye life.

Hello Mom.

Hello friends.

Hello black.

No afterlife for an athiest.

Oh, well.

"Oh, well," I whisper, and squeeze the trigger with all my force.

Nothing.

Blaine sighs with relief, taking the gun back and doing the same thing.

Again, nothing.

He frowns, handing it back to me.

"I really did love you," Blaine says as I hold it up to my head.

"Thank you for loving me, then."

Then I do pull the trigger.

My vision explodes.

No more anyone.

No more threats.

No more being alone.

There's just the shattered glass of my life, and forever.

Free.

_End. _

_**Forget your troubles, c'mon, get happy...**_

**Review please, so I know if I got this right. **


	16. Closing Regrets

**A/N: Surprise.**

**This isn't the epilogue.**

"No."

"NO."

It wasn't supposed to happen like this.

I was supposed to die, Kurt was supposed to go free.

I had it planned so perfectly.

_Not everything goes as planned, Blaine, _the familiar voice in my head echoes.

"Shut up, Corinne." She always had to tell me her two cents.

There was silence in the field.

My hands shook as I looked at the pale body on the ground, blood splattered everywhere.

I knew what I had to do.

"I'm so sorry, Kurt. I'm so sorry. Please forgive me," I whispered, as I took the gun from his lifeless hands, loading it with another bullet. _I will follow you in the the dark._

I took a deep breath. "I'm sorry everyone I killed, I had to do it. I'm sorry Corinne, that I couldn't help you in time. I'm sorry that I never could live up to expectations. I'm sorry that I never did this sooner."

Time for the revenge.

Taking the gun, the bullet went straight through my broken heart.

The engagement ring on my finger soaked with blood.

I spluttered, coughing out blood, and collapsed next to my fiance, closing my eyes.

"I'm sorry."

**Black.**

_**If there's no one beside you  
When your soul embarks  
Then I'll follow you into the dark **_


	17. EPILOGUE

**THE FOLLOWING INTERROGATIONS ARE FROM **

**CASE 337,**

**OF THE 'SONGBIRD KILLER'**

**TAKEN PLACE BETWEEN 7PM AND 12AM.**

**EMMA PILLSBURY**

**7:03PM-7:51PM**

**Interrogator: Miss Pillsbury, can you please describe exactly what your attacker did?**

**Emma Pillsbury: He took me from my home, tied me up in his basement. It was so dirty, and I was in there for weeks. He duct taped my mouth so I couldn't cry for help, only taking it off to feed me. **

**Q: Were you aware of your attacker's identity at the time of your kidnapping?**

**EP: Yes, he seemed to flaunt it. Blaine would talk to me about his plans all the time, especially about Kurt. He always spoke of Kurt. Whenever I got the chance, I tried to convince him how wrong this was. He never listened.**

**Q: Was there anyone else there with you, besides Mr. Anderson?**

**EP: Of course there was. You know that. Jean. Ms. Sylvester's sister.**

**Q: Can you describe her arrival?**

**EP: It was shortly after I came. She was so confused to what was going on, not fully understanding. It broke my heart...**

**Q: Would you like a tissue?**

**EP: Yes, thank you. **

**Q: What happened the day Jean died?**

**EP: I honestly have no idea. It was like someone switched an off button, and she collapsed, dead. I think it was the IV hooked up to her. **

**Q: How did you escape?**

**EP: It was a day after Jean died. Blaine didn't come back, which I expected. **

**Q: Wait. What did you expect?**

**EP: He told me his plans. To kill himself instead of Kurt. I assumed it had worked, that he was dead, and I was free. I managed to use the knife on his table, rolling over to it, to cut my ropes loose.**

**Q: Why didn't you do this earlier?**

**EP: The knife wasn't there before. He gave me permission to use it, before he left, to escape. But he said not to escape only after I was sure he was dead. **

**Q: You never mentioned this before.**

**EP: You never asked before. I'm sorry, I'm being rude. It's just, I've been here for eight hours, and you haven't even let me see Will yet, and I just...**

**Q: Just one more question, is that alright?**

**EP: Of course.**

**Q: Would you say Blaine Anderson was insane?**

**EP: Yes and no. He certainly had his moments of questionable motives, but it was something else that drove him to it. But don't get me wrong, he's a genius. He had this all planned out perfectly. **

**Q: Except for Kurt.**

**EP: Yes...except for Kurt.**

**Q: Thank you for your time, Miss Pillsbury.**

**WILLIAM SHUESTER**

**7:53PM-8:21PM**

**Q: Mr. Schuester, how long were you under Mr. Anderson's watch?**

**William Schuester: Since the beginning, I guess. **

**Q: Please explain.**

**WS: He knew. He knew my love for Emma, he knew that I would do anything to save those kids. He had to keep me away. So he black mailed me, saying he would kill her if I tried to help. **

**Q: Where did he keep you?**

**WS: At my apartment, where I stayed, hoping for everything to be alright.**

**Q: And when did Sue Sylvester come?**

**WS: Sometime after Finn Hudson's death, she stayed with me. **

**Q: And why was this?**

**WS: He had her sister. She would cross the world for Jean, and he knew that as well.**

**Q: Did he ever keep in contact with you throughout this?**

**WS: On occasion, he would send us pictures of them, always asleep.**

**Q: And when did Sue Sylvester disappear?**

**WS: As soon as she found out about Jean's unfortunate death.**

**Q: Do you have any knowledge about where she might be?**

**WS: No. I hope that she can eventually find peace, though. I really do.**

**Q: One last question.**

**WS: Really? This was short. I guess.**

**Q: Would you say, that in your opinion, Blaine Anderson was insane?**

**WS: Yes. No one mentally fit would do such a thing. He was evil, and I wish I could have done something. I just...**

**Q: You can leave now.**

**WS: Thank you.  
**

**OWEN COBALT**

**8:26PM-9:08PM  
**

**Q: Can you please describe what your role was in the murders, Mr. Cobalt?**

**Owen Cobalt: I stepped in for Blaine as a favor.**

**Q: Elaborate on 'stepped in'.**

**OC: I killed some chick for him. He didn't want to show his face or somethin', so I just, I don't know, stepped in. It's not like it's hard to understand.**

**Q: So, you're admitting to murder.**

**OC: Uh, yeah. What, am I supposed to lie? Who does that?**

**Q: You'd be surprised. Can you explain the events leading up to your the homicide?**

**OC: Sure, whatever. Blaine called me up, asking for me to fill in. I'd known him since forever, see, and he's saved my ass once or twice. So of course I would commit murder for him, he's my bro. Anyways, he gave me a bunch of stuff to cover up my face and shit, and gave me directions to the girl's house.**

**Q: What was this girl's name?**

**OC: Hell if I knew. She was just some chick, alright?**

**Q: Describe her.**

**OC: Uh...she was black. Am I allowed to say that? Or do I say African American? Whatever. Yeah, she was African American, and she had fancy clothes, and nice hair, and was on the heavier side. **

**Q: Was there anyone else in the room when this all...went down, so to speak?**

**OC: Yep, there was a dude. I had to tell him a bunch of stuff that Blaine wrote down for me. **

**Q: Which was?**

**OC: How the hell am I supposed to remember? I just said it, killed the girl, and left. Honestly, it was a pretty lame death. I was hoping to burn her, or something.**

**Q: Where did you meet Blaine Anderson?**

**OC: His last name was Anderson? Whoa, no idea. But, y'know, I met him at rehab.**

**Q: There are records of Mr. Anderson being in a drug rehabilitation center in southern Ohio. Is this what you're referring to?**

**OC: Yeah, that one. He was there because he took too many of his psycho pills, wanting to off himself. Heh, I just had way too much pot. Nothing special.**

**Q: How many years ago was this?**

**OC: You have the records, you tell me. **

**Q: Please answer the question.**

**OC: Shit, I don't remember. I was about fifteen or fourteen, so three or so years ago. I think. How old am I? **

**Q: So he wanted to kill himself before he transferred to Dalton Academy.**

**OC: Dalton Whatsit?**

**Q: Dalton Academy, before he met Mr. Hummel.**

**OC: Who's he? What are you writing down?**

**Q: One more question, Mr. Cobalt. **

**OC: Alright.**

**Q: Would you say that Blaine Anderson was mentally insane?**

**OC: Was he what?**

**Q: Was he crazy? **

**OC: Hell no. I would fight to the death to say that he wasn't. Blaine was a good guy. Just a few problems. But a good guy. **

**Q: No further questions. Thank you.**

**OC: Can I go home now?**

**Q: You won't be going home for a long time. **

**SANTANA LOPEZ**

**9:10PM-11:15PM  
**

**Q: Miss Lopez, how are you feeling?**

**Santana Lopez: Shitty. I was brutally injured and crawled home. How do you think I feel?**

**Q: No need to get upset. It was merely a question.**

**SL: Cool. Can I leave now? Gotta a lot of shit I need to do. **

**Q: Who was your attacker?**

**SL: You know that.**

**Q: Humor me.**

**SL: Blaine Warbler. Or whatever the hell his last name was. Kurt's bitch. The one who killed a lot of my close friends. Kurt's gonna be sad if he finds out Blaine's dead, but you know what? He was a sick bastard who deserved it. **

**Q: ...Ms. Lopez?**

**SL: Yeah?**

**Q: What is your knowledge of what happened to Kurt Hummel?**

**SL: Isn't he being questioned too? I haven't seen him yet, but I assume he's bitching up a storm. Why?**

**Q: Ms. Lopez, Kurt Hummel is dead. **

**SL: What? **

**Q: Kurt Hummel was killed by a self inflicted gunshot to the head, presumably forced into. **

**SL: Oh. **

**Q: We can stop, if you need a tissue-**

**SL: I don't need a damn tissue. I was just thinking. Oh, and it's not 'presumably' oh whatever shit you said. Kurt's not the suicide type. He appreciated life. **

**Q: I understand. I'll tell the medical staff.**

**SL: Good. ….So who is dead? I thought he stopped killing after me.**

**Q: Did he tell you this?**

**SL: Yeah. Did that bastard lie? Who's dead? Tell me. I can handle it. **

**Q: All of your classmates are dead, except for you. Which we should get to-**

**SL: So Kurt's dead.**

**Q: Correct.**

**SL: And...Artie?**

**Q: Artie Abrams is dead, yes. **

**SL: Oh...**

**Q: Ms. Lopez, can I continue the questioning? If you're feeling unwell, we could take a short-**

**SL: Ahem. No. I'm fine, of course I'm fine. I knew in the back of my mind that there's no way they could've survived. So just me? Ha. Cool. So, ask away.**

**Q: Alright. What happened on the night you disappeared?**

**SL: He took me to this remote place, that kinda place where no one could hear you scream for miles. He began to work on me. **

**Q: By work, do you mean sexual-**

**SL: No. Come on, you know that Blaine wasn't that kind of person. **

**Q: Not necessarily. Please continue.**

**SL: So, he did nothing sexy or anything. He...the pain...it wasn't pain that hurt physically, y'know? I mean, it hurt, he used knives and torture and all that fucking stuff. But for me, it was a punishment. For being so cruel, I would learn how it is on the other side. What's that one Greek or whatever term?**

**Q: An eye for an eye?**

**SL: Yeah. That. It was getting an eye to an eye. Which, I guess you can see he literally thought of, as you can see from the bloody fucking catastrophe my right eye is. All caved in and purple. Is that gonna heal, by the way?**

**Q: I don't believe so.**

**SL: Good. It makes me look tough, a Lima Heights girl. Would teach more bastards like him not to mess with Lopez. Anyways, he fucked me up and all, and he thought I was dead. What a sucker. I was very still, and he left, like that. I was there, for hours. Bleeding to death. If it wasn't for those random hippie hikers, my ass would've been still there, but dead. The wife said that natural healing would do the trick, but I begged them to take me to the hospital, so I could reveal Blaine. But I didn't make it there in time, because they said I was in no condition to move at all. Then I came, but I guess it was too late.**

**Q: Did Mr. Anderson say anything to you during this experience?**

**SL: Well...he kept telling me about how well Brittany took her death. About what a good girl she was, and how I should not be so resistant. I was stubborn. It was pure torture, hearing him talk about Brittany so casually.**

**Q: Was he doing this on purpose, you think?**

**SL: Of course he was. He's callous, and knows how to twist someone's mind. **

**Q: Now, in many of the victims hands, we found cards. Playing cards. Do you have any idea what this means?**

**SL: Listen up, and listen closely. Blaine would give cards to every victim, right before their death. It had a word on the back, describing what their death would be, how it goes.**

**Q: What was your 'word', so to speak?**

**SL: Missing.**

**Q: Does this indicate that maybe he planned for you to stay alive?**

**SL: No.**

**Q: How can you be so certain?**

**SL: He wouldn't leave it to chance. If he really did want to kill everyone, then he wouldn't risk me coming back and ruining his plans. He was a planner, I knew at least that. **

**Q: Now, final question. Would you say that Blaine Anderson was insane?**

**SL: Yes. **

**Q: Care to elaborate?**

**SL: His eyes. Everything else was calm and sophisticated. But that calculating look in his eyes, the true reason behind them, it was unnerving. I saw it, always, even before this whole thing went down. It was a veil showing a mind unhitched. He was insane. He always was.**

**CORINNE ANDERSON**

**11:23PM-12:00AM  
**

**Q: Can you please describe your relationship with Blaine?**

**Corinne Anderson: I'm his older sister. By the way, you shouldn't keep me here for long. The meds can't keep me sane for long, and you know how _anxious _the doctors get when I'm...alone...with someone.**

**Q: Are you threatening me?**

**CA: Of course not, darling. Just making a point. You were damn lucky they let me out. **

* * *

_A very short, lithe girl sits on a cold metal chair, one leg hugging her chest and the other outstretched on the table. She her black curls spill past her shoulders, a manic grin on her face. Her eyes are normal, hazel and wise beyond her years. She has a young face, not giving away the murder in her past. She is handcuffed behind the chair, and beyond a one way mirror, there are tons of police officers on guard in case anything happens. The harsh single light creates a new demonic demeanor for her. She seems fragile, but the danger lurks in her soul, and her tongue curls when she speaks. But inside, there is love for her brother, and a sage resting inside. She knows things. _

* * *

**Q: We are aware. This is why time is of the essence. What can you tell of Blaine's past?**

**CA: Our parents, they were the root of all evil. Blaine had become distant...after my parents cut off all of my hair and shoved me in a closet. Well, daddy dearest did. Mommy just watched. I was in the closet for a week, and Blaine kept screaming at the door to let me out, but they didn't. They said my sins could melt away.**

**Q: You have no obligation to answer, but what sins?**

**CA: It's quite alright. Man, these cuffs are biting at my skin. Why so tight? My sins were that I was wrong. I slept with girls, I slept with men, I was one messed up girl. But honestly, it was all of their fault. And I was a self harmer, which is _such _ a sin. They would release anger on me. Mommy would slap, Daddy would throw. Blaine got the worst of it, though. After he came out. They were angry at themselves, I see that now. For producing one fag and one semi fag. They would beat him, sometimes. And I'd try to stop them. That was the day I was locked in a closet, when I started to hit back. The bruises hurt, but I didn't care. That closet...that was when I went psychotic. The whole shebang. Throwing things, pulling the little clumps of hair I still had from when they cut it out, even burning things. We were sent to this mental institution, y'know. Every summer. When I set it on fire, I was locked away. Forever. ...I'm sorry, you probably don't care. This is about Blaine, not me.**

**Q: Whatever you say helps us understand what led Blaine to this, Ms. Anderson. So, what happened to your parents?**

**CA: Blaine killed them, after I was locked away. At least, I presume. He promised me he would. And he was damn good at doing it too. I may have been the smart one, the sexy one, but he was cunning. I could never plan ahead, I lived in the moment. But he expected everything. That's why you never heard about his patricide and matricide. He kept up the payments for my treatments in their names, told their respective offices that they were quitting, et cetera, et cetera.**

**Q: How aware of you of his plans to murder these kids? **

**CA: Not completely. He would talk of Kurt often. Even spoke of me meeting him one day. I welcomed it; I wanted to see the man who stole my brother's heart so. Blaine's eyes, they lit up whenever he mentioned this kid. He showed me pictures, and I must admit, he was a looker. Our conversations face to face were always monitored, and I was always in my straight jacket. But he wrote letters, talking of revenge and whatnot. I only learned of his full plans a few hours ago. What a genius my brother was. **

**Q: Did anyone else suspect your brother had problems?**

**CA: Blaine was good at hiding any problems he had, even when we were kids. With every beating, he would take it like a man. I admired him for being able to keep cool under fire. But sometimes, he would get very angry. Saying things about how dare others act like every little thing is the biggest problem, when we're suffering for the big picture. He would be passionate whenever he gave those eloquent speeches. I would usually stay quiet when he went off like this. Now? Now I see the full extent of what he was talking of. It was behind it all.**

**Q: Thank you, Corinne. That was very helpful.**

**CA: Your welcome. Are they going to take the wild animal back to her cage before she kills another staff member?**

**Q: Just one more question, Ms. Anderson.**

**CA: Go ahead.**

**Q: Was your brother, Blaine Anderson, certifiably insane in your opinion?**

**CA: Yes and no. **

**Q: Can you please elaborate?**

**CA: Everyone has the little devil on their right shoulder, everyone has the whispers in their ears. Honestly? I think I whispered in Blaine's ear a bit, sharing the insanity. He told me I was his concise sometimes, and sometimes I was that devil. Everyone has the moments. Insanity isn't a disease, it's a trait that we all have. And if you judge my brother's actions based on his mental being, then you should just commit everyone to a mental hospital.**

**So yes, he was insane. But honestly, aren't we all?**

**Q: ...No further questions.**

**CA: Enjoy being 'sane', darling. It never lasts long. **

_**End. **_

A/N: Hey, guys. HEY, YOU. YES, READ THIS. I'd appreciate it _so much _if you'd review this, telling me overall what I needed to work on in this fic, and what I was best at. I'm always trying to improve, and even if I take criticism poorly. But you don't need to tell me how bad I am at police interrogations, I'm already aware, haha. Also, after this will be an interrogation with the author, in which I answer questions you've asked over this entire fic. So, ask me something you're curious about. I don't bite. On occasion.


	18. INTERVIEW W AUTHOR

**FAQ (FREQUENTLY ASKED QUESTIONS)**

**THE FOLLOWING ARE QUESTIONS ASKED TO THE AUTHOR OF**

**INSTRUCTIONS ON THE BACK, TOPHATGIRL,**

**VIA PRIVATE MESSAGE ON IN REVIEWS.**

**Q: It's over! Will there be a sequel?**

**THG: Probably not, considering how they're all dead. Sorry, kiddos. But I do have some ongoing fictions if you haven't gotten enough of me.**

**Q: Blaine's the killer? That doesn't make sense, because he has: hazel eyes/not crazy/too short/blah blah blah**

**THG: Seriously? This? Okay, for the hazel eyes thing, I had no idea. I just assumed brown. That I apologize for. Everything else is just reading way too much into anything, or not reading closely enough.**

**Q: THEY GOT ENGAGED.**

**THG: ...that's not a question.**

**Q: YAY! SANTANA'S STILL ALIVE! But why?**

**OR**

**NO! SANTANA'S STILL ALIVE! But why?**

**THG: Yes, Santana is still among the living. Why? Because she's a badass and I love her character. No, I'm not really playing favorites. The real reason is that I wanted there to be a survivor left, someone to tell the tale. Because how else would any policemen know about the cards or anything else? It made sense. If you are really that upset over it, then just mentally erase her interrogation from your mind. Wimp.**

**Q: I liked the original prologue better than the updated!**

**THG: I'm still unsure which one I liked better. But thank you! I guess. **

**Q: YOU BITCH! YOU KILLED BRITTANY!**

**THG: I am not a female dog! Yeah, I know. That chapter was by far one of the hardest. That, and Puck's. **

**Q: I really dislike Klaine and am angry that you had that in.**

**THG: I'm not the BIGGEST fan of Klaine, especially since it seems every story is about it now, and that it seems unrealistic in the show, but I love Darren Criss, so I put up with it. This story wasn't about Klaine, and if you're focusing on that, then you're completely missing the point. Also, it wasn't really 'klaine'. Blaine was nuts and Kurt had that whole "when in rome" (or more accurately, 'when I'm going to die') idea, and just went with it. I just wanted to have some tear inducing "oh god that's so twisted but sweet?" reading there. I could go into SO much detail with this, because everything I did had a purpose, but then you'd get bored. If you are really curious, then just message me; people have done it, and I've answered them. **

**Q: WHY DIDN'T YOU HAVE [insert couple here] TOGETHER?**

**THG: I tried to stick with canon couples here, because I thought that would distract from the story if I also threw romance in there.**

**Q: Who's Matt?**

**THG: Curse you into the deepest pits of hell! I HATE YOU. Ahem, ask someone else, dear. **

**Q: What inspired this story?**

**THG: A lot of things. One was a novel called: And Then There Were None. Another was a book called: The Messenger by Marcus Zusak. Yet another was a fanfic about Arthur characters (yes, the kids book!) getting killed off one by one. Yet another (!) was a book called Endgame. Yeah, I read a lot of books. But most of it was just me being bored.**

**Q: You were really bad in the beginning? Why?**

**THG: I wasn't trying. When I published the first two chapters, I got so many reviews that I was so excited to start the next chapter. So I would write them in 30 minutes or so, eager to publish. Then came that review (which I took down from the chapter) that opened my eyes. I put more time and effort into it, and got into the characters that I actually cared about. **

**Q: Why didn't the kids do anything?**

**THG: Because they couldn't. Honestly, you wouldn't be able to either. Seriously, what would you do if a psycho killer was after you? Call the cops? They're blackmailed. Run away? He'd find you. Fight? He has shiny weapons. Despite what the movies say, there is really not a lot you could do, and that's true in real life.**

**Q: Did Beth ever get Puck and Quinn's letter?**

**THG: Maybe. You'll have to decide for yourselves. Blaine did have the letter in his backpack, which the police collected. It could have gotten to her. **

**Q: Will you ever get around to redoing everything?**

**THG: Probably not. I'm dead tired and really really want to focus on Mental Quirks.**

**Q: You stopped telling us which songs are which! Can I get a soundtrack listing?**

**THG: Phew. Okay, here's the list of songs used, in order of appearance:**

**Help I'm Alive by Metric**

**Skeleton Song by Kate Nash**

**Heart In A Cage by The Strokes**

**Spaceman by The Killers**

**Take Me To A Higher Plane by Kate Nash**

**Blinding by Florence + The Machine**

**Tick Tick Boom by The Hives**

**Can't Stop Feeling by Franz Ferdinand**

**Happier by A Fine Frenzy**

**Mardy Bum by Arctic Monkeys**

**Stranger In A Strange Land by Barbra Streisand**

**Get Happy by Judy Garland**

**I'll Follow You Into The Dark by Death Cab For Cutie**

**Q: What the fuck took you so long to come out with the last chapter/ epilogue/ faq?**

**THG: I got busy. I had school. Then I got it all typed out and fancy. Then my computer died and deleted all of my files. I got pissed off and didn't approach it again for a few weeks. I'm really sorry about that. **

**Q: Who's Owen Cobalt and Corinne Anderson?**

**THG: OCs. Owen is by me, and Corrine is by Blame It On The Alcohol, who won a little contest I had. If you didn't really get what roles they played, re-read the epilogue.**

**Q: The epilogue was really interesting and/or terrible! Why did you format it that way?**

**THG: Because I wanted to clarify a few final points with ease. It was a simple way to get the other character's experience in a condensed form. **

**Q: You're fucking insane! How did you come up with this?**

**THG: Uh, I have no clue. I already told you a lot of horror books that gave me inspiration, but for the death scenes, I dream up a lot of it, and generally gather ideas from my everyday life, including friends, family, school, etc. You guys did give me fantastic ideas, which I sort of used as a platform for my more sickening things.**

**Q: What happened to Jean?**

**THG: That was a hard one to miss, I don't blame you if you didn't catch that. In chapter 15, it says here, and I quote: **_**"**__Before he does anything, he presses a tiny red button on his watch. I wonder briefly what it does._" **That was the button (mentioned in the 'victims' chapter) that killed poor Jeanie instantly. Yeah. -points to previous question-. **

**Q: You got a lot of reviews, how did you do it?**

**THG: I'm surprised I was asked this, via PM, because there are lot of other authors out there who've gotten a lot more reviews for a lot better writing. But I do have a few tricks to get reviews, which aren't really tricks at all. Get people involved in your story. Have them vote on couples, or plots, or anything. Don't threaten them, by saying, "I won't update until I get 10 reviews!" or something like that. It's annoying and will probably alienate readers. Also, it all depends on the content. People are sick freaks, so they read sickening things, AKA this. If it's cliché, then no one reads it. There's a million Klaine fics about how Blaine goes to McKinley. People get bored of it. Provide something interesting, and people will follow. **

**Q: This story actually wasn't that good. It wasn't that scary, I wasn't disturbed in the slightest, and I think you're getting a lot of unnecessary praise for it. **

**THG: Not a question, per se, but I think I'll attempt to tackle this one. Twilight wasn't that good. It was creepy, it was poorly written, and got a lot of attention it didn't deserve. But people read it, they like it, they thought it was well written. See? It's a matter of perspective, and whether I deserved what I got or not, it's your choice whether or not to let it get to you. **

**Q: What was, in your opinion, your favorite chapter to write?**

**THG: Isn't that like giving yourself a high five? No matter. I really loved writing Tina, because she's very poetic in my fics, so I like to bring out that descriptive side. It also showed intelligence in Blaine, which I always like to point out. Second favorite would probably be of course Kurt's death, because it had just a breath of fluff in an otherwise dark story, and it was a huge challenge to keep it in...again, no one cares. Ha. **

**Q: Who's going to actually read an interview with the author?**

**THG: There's someone reading this right now.**

**Q: What the hell is the point of this FAQ?**

**THG: Beats me. People have a lot of questions. **

**Q: Any closing words?**

**THG: To everyone who reviewed, alerted, favorited, or just was an invisible reader, I thank you. Even if you were a hater, you made me better. I was overwhelmed by the love and support of all ****of you, it warmed my heart. If I were to go on a killing spree, I'd spare you guys.**

**Thank you, and have a happy, murder free life. **


End file.
